There was a long silence between them. Mr. Mahaffy drank, and when he did not drink he bit his under lip and studied the judge. This was always distressing to the latter gentleman. Mahaffy's silence he could never penetrate. What was back of it--judgment, criticism, disbelief--what? Or was it the silence of emptiness? Was Mahaffy dumb merely because he could think of nothing to say, or did his silence cloak his feelings-and what were his feelings? Did his meditations outrun his habitually insulting speech as he bit his under lip and glared at him? The judge always felt impelled to talk at such times, while Mahaffy, by that silence of his, seemed to weigh and condemn whatever he said. The moon had slipped below the horizon. Pleasantville had long since gone to bed; it was only the judge's window that gave its light to the blackness of the night. There was a hoofbeat on the road. It came nearer and nearer, and presently sounded just beyond the door. Then it ceased, and a voice said: “Hullo, there!” The judge scrambled to his feet, and taking up the candle, stepped, or rather staggered, into the yard. Mahaffy followed him. “What's wanted?” asked the judge, as he lurched up to horse and rider, holding his candle aloft. The light showed a tail fellow mounted on a handsome bay horse. It was Murrell. “Is there an inn hereabouts?” he asked. “You'll find one down the road a ways,” said Mahaffy. The judge said nothing. He was staring up at Murrell with drunken gravity. “Have either of you gentlemen seen a boy go through here to-day? A boy about ten years old?” Murrell glanced from one to the other. Mr. Mahaffy's thin lips twisted themselves into a sarcastic smile. He turned to the judge, who spoke up quickly. “Did he carry a bundle and rifle?” he asked. Murrell gave eager assent. “Well,” said the judge, “he stopped here along about four o'clock and asked his way to the nearest river landing.” Murrell gathered up his reins, and then that fixed stare of the judge's seemed to arrest his attention. “You'll know me again,” he observed. “Anywhere,” said the judge. “I hope that's a satisfaction to you,” said Murrell. “It ain't--none whatever,” answered the judge promptly. “For I don't value you--I don't value you that much!” and he snapped his fingers to illustrate his meaning. CHAPTER XI. THE ORATOR OF THE DAY “Hannibal!” the judge's voice and manner were rather stern. “Hannibal, a man rode by here last night on a big bay horse. He said he was looking for a boy about ten years old--a boy with a bundle and rifle.” There was an awful pause. Hannibal's heart stood still for a brief instant, then it began to beat with terrific thumps against his ribs. “Who was that man, Hannibal?” “I--please, I don't know--” gasped the child. “Hannibal, who was that man?” repeated the judge.