“And why shouldn’t you be,” said the crafty Harshaw, “when we all know there is no still but the God-fearing bonded still in the whole country! Look at the jury, and tell them that you were not drinking that night.” The unfortunate witness faltered that he _had_ been drinking some. “You had!” exclaimed Harshaw, with the accents of surprise. “And yet you say, on oath, that you were sober. Now what do you call sober? We must inquire into this. What do you take? I wish I could put that question as it should be between gentlemen, but”—he waved his fat hand—“some other day.” The witness stared dumbly at him, and the crowd grinned. “Let me put the question in another form. How much of the reverend stuff is enough to settle you? A pint?” The witness gallantly declared that he could stand a pint. “A jugful?” “Oh, naw, sir,”—meaning a jugful would not be necessary. In the staccato of affected amaze, “_Barrelful!_” The badgered witness protested and explained, and Harshaw asked, lowering his voice, as if it were exceedingly important, “Now, did that whiskey taste like _brush_ whiskey?” As the quaking, shock-headed country lout replied, the facetious counsel recoiled. “What! you tell this honorable court, and this intelligent jury, and this upright and learned and teetotaling attorney for the State, that you don’t know the difference in the taste between the illicit corn juice of the mountains and the highly honorable, pure, rectified liquor, taxed and stamped, made and drunk, under the auspices of this great, good, and glorious government!” The judge, who had watched Harshaw with a dilated, gleaming gray eye and a quivering nostril, spoke abruptly. “The court will not longer tolerate this buffoonery,” he drawled. “Counsel may cross-examine witness, and if he has _nothing_ to say he may be silent.” Harshaw flushed deeply. He had always enjoyed certain privileges as a wit. Judge Averill, who loved a joke for its own gladsome sake, had often permitted him to transcend decorum. He had no idea, however, of figuring as the butt of his own ridicule. He was a quick fellow, and took what advantage was possible of the situation. “If it please your Honor,” he said, rising to address the judge, and with an air of great courtesy, “I will waive the right of cross-examination, since my methods fail in satisfying the court.” Gwinnan looked at him with thinly veiled antagonism. Harshaw relapsed into his tilted chair, still lightly holding his lapels, that favorite posture of rural gentlemen, listening with an air of polite but incidental attention to the attorney-general’s examination of the next witness, and declining with a wave of his fat hand to cross-examine.