It was a tough night outside, one of the toughest for years.

The frost had completely shut the window panes as with thick blankets of snow.

The streets were silent.
"I don't know," said the Judge, reflectively, to Robie, breaking the silence in his rasping, judicial bass, "I don't know as there has been such a night as this since the night of February 2d, '59; that was the night James Kirk went under--Honorable Kirk, you remember--knew him well.

Brilliant fellow, ornament to Western bar.

But whisky downed him.
It'll beat the oldest man--I wonder where the boys all are to-night?
Don't seem to be any one stirring on the street.