“Malley, did you say?” the judge was inquiring almost eagerly. “Well, now, son, I'm glad to meet up with you. Malley is a fairly familiar name and a highly honored one down in our part of the country. There was a captain in Forrest's command of your name--Captain Malley--a mighty gallant soldier and a splendid gentleman! You put me right sharply in mind of him too--seem to favor him considerable round the eyes. Are you closely related to the Southern branch of the family, suh?” Malley caught himself wishing that he could say Yes. The old judge showed almost a personal disappointment when Malley confessed that none of his kinspeople, so far as he knew, ever resided south of Scranton, Pennsylvania. “No doubt a distant connection,” amended the judge, as though consoling both himself and Malley; “the family resemblance is there shorely.” He laid a pudgy pink hand on Malley's arm. “You'll pardon me for presumin' on such short acquaintance, but down where I come from it is customary, when two gentlemen meet up together at about this hour of the evenin'”--it was then three o'clock p.m., Eastern time, as Malley noted--“it is customary for them to take a dram. Will you join me?” Scenting his story, Malley fell into step by the old judge's side; but at the door of the café the judge halted him. “Son,” he said confidentially, “I like this tavern mightily--all but the grocery here. I must admit that I don't much care for the bottled goods they're carryin' in stock. I sampled 'em and I didn't enthuse over 'em. They are doubtless excellent for cookin' purposes, but as beverages they sort of fall short. “I wish you'd go up to my chamber with me and give me the benefit of your best judgment on a small vial of liquor I brought with me in my valise. It's an eighteen-year-old sour mash, mellowed in the wood, and I feel that I can recommend it to your no doubt dis-criminatin' palate. Will you give me the pleasure of your company, suh?” As Malley, smiling to himself, went with the judge, it struck him with emphasis that, for a newly arrived transient, this old man seemed to have an astonishingly wide acquaintance among the house staff of the Hotel Royal. A page-boy, all buttons and self-importance, sidestepped them, smiling and ducking at the old judge's nod; and the elevator attendant, a little, middle-aged Irishman, showed unalloyed pleasure when the judge, after blinking slightly and catching his breath as the car started upward with a dart like a scared swallow, inquired whether he'd had any more news yet of the little girl who was in the hospital. Plainly the old judge and the elevator man had already been exchanging domestic confidences. Into his small room on the seventeenth floor Judge Priest ushered the reporter with the air of one dispensing the hospitalities of a private establishment to an honored guest, made him rest his hat and overcoat--“rest” was the word the judge used--and sit down in the easiest chair and make himself comfortable.