At last the little fat red-faced Judge was heard to say-- "They was married in the Fall." "About--about--about--eh, about what month, do you remember, eh?" squeaked out the hatchet-faced interrogation point through the nose, as he planted himself before the little Judge. "About the last cleaning up," said the Judge cheerfully. "That was about--about--" and the hatchet-faced man with the nasal twang and sharp nose began again to count on his fingers--"about four, five, six, seven months ago?" "Yes, yes," said the good-natured, unsuspicious, important little Judge, "about six, seven months ago, I reckon." And then he, smiling innocently, fell in between two great bearded giants, as a sort of ham-sandwich filling, to take a drink at the bar. "Ompossible!" said the first top to the hatchet-face. "Ask him." The hatchet-face and sharp-nose looked towards the little fat Judge wedged in between the giants. The top spun up to the little Judge, wedged his head in between the giants' shoulders, and asked a question. The Judge shook his head, and then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, said half sadly, "No, I am not. No, I am sorry to say, I am not. That is a happiness still in store. No, I am not a family man. Never was married in my life; but whatever may transpire in this glorious climate of Californy--" The top had its answer, and spun back to its place without waiting for the last of the speech. The two men talked together again. Then they appealed to an old man who sat mute and sullen back on the bench by the bull-dog. "No, he didn't know about such things; didn't care a cuss anyhow." And the two men went away as if a flea or two had left the dog and hopped into their ears. They went to another man. "Don't see the point, blowed ef I do. Six months, seven months, eight months, ten months, all along there, I 'spose. The great Washington, Caesar, Horace Greeley, all sich big-bugs, it might take one, two, three years. That little cuss to-day only a month or two, I reckon. It's all right, I reckon. It ain't my funeral, any how. And what the devil you come botherin' of me for, anyhow? Ef yer don't want to drink yerself, let a fellow alone what does!" And he shook them off with a gesture of the hand and a jerk of the head that meant a great deal more than he had said. There were not so many fingers up now as before. The question evidently had been settled in the minds of the men fully in favor of the little Half-a-pint. Few understood these things at all, fewer still cared to go into particulars at this time, and the question would keep till they had more leisure and less whisky.