ONE evening, not very many days after Hugh’s visit to the Horton family, he happened to meet Linus Lynn, the justice of the peace. Linus Lynn not only discharged the duties of village squire, but he was also engaged in the land, loan, and insurance business. He introduced himself to Hugh in the most matter-of-fact way, by saying that he had been intending, for some time, to do himself the honor of calling at the bank and getting acquainted.

“But business, you know, Mr. Stanton, is a very jealous master.” A Falstaff smile overspread his chubby, side-whiskered face as he spoke.

“Quite true,” replied Hugh, “and it’s my misfortune not to have met you before. I hope soon to form the acquaintance of every business man in Meade.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Judge Lynn, as he shut one eye knowingly.

The judge was in many respects an odd-looking individual, with his round face and straggling side-whiskers, and Hugh instinctively said, at first sight, “Here is a character.”

In the first place and chiefly, his appearance gave evidence that Kansas prohibition did not prohibit. His bloated face attested to this—his immensity of waist measurement added proof—his whiskey-dwindled legs were argument eloquent, while his alcoholic breath was conviction itself.

This was Judge Lynn,—good-natured, frank, easy-going, improvident, in debt to everybody, and still willing to borrow. Unendowed with wisdom—and yet ignorant as a child of the fact—a man whom everybody liked simply because there was no reason why he should be hated.

He knew every resident of Meade—in fact he knew every soul in the county and for miles beyond its borders—he also, in turn, was known. He was a pioneer of Kansas—came out from Indiana when very young, and in his years of residence in the Southwest had told people of his boyhood exploits on the banks of the Wabash. According to his own story he had been a great foot-racer—in fact, had never been beaten. The only evidence, however, of such athletic feats, came from his oft-repeated—even proverbial—assertions in regard to them.

He was a fixture on the streets of Meade, and had industriously whittled every dry-goods box in front of every store. He entered into political discussions, harmlessly; and there were even those who believed that he had convictions of his own.

He was a philanthropist in the way of giving good advice. Without solicitation he told the merchant how to conduct his business in order to reap the greatest results. He told the banker, in the same generous way, in whose hands it was safe to place loans. He would walk as far as a mile to inform cattlemen when to sell their herds.

Above all, Judge Lynn posed as the consulting oracle of the farmer, and the farmer—let it be understood—generally listened while he talked. Then, too, he was a weather prophet. He frequently prophesied as to a scourge of grasshoppers,—of chinch-bugs,—of hot winds, but seldom foretold a rain, of which the farmer stood in the greatest need. His prognostications as to “dry spells” really made him his reputation. In fact, it was his own normal condition to be “dry” and it had passed into a byword that when the judge suggested a “dry spell” it meant that he was short on change and “long on thirst.” Usually, out of courtesy, the farmer, thus advised, would invite him “round the corner” to take a drink. On returning again to the street, the judge would immediately commence repeating the prophecy of a “dry spell,” while his alert eyes would search the faces of his listeners, in an eager endeavor to pick out the one who would next invite him to take a walk “round the corner.” Indeed, it may be stated as well here as later, that in drinking matters Judge Lynn, according to his own statement, was a “repeater.”

In a professional way, Lynn recognized to a very high degree his own ability. In fact, on several occasions, he had taken issues with and attempted to reverse decisions of the higher courts.

The peculiarities of his appearance were augmented by a tall silk hat. This hat the people declared he had always had, and they reverenced it for its years of service.

The younger generation, in their thoughtlessness, if not their rudeness, had nicknamed Judge Lynn the “town spinning-top.” Now, while this was an evident lack of courtesy on their part, it was nevertheless suggested by his appearance. Indeed, he did slope from the waist line up to his number six hat, and down to his number six boots, as abruptly as a top tapers. And then, too, he was always spinning yarns. The more daring boys went so far as to discuss among themselves, in caucus secrecy, the great time they could have if, by some means, they could wind a cord around the judge’s spindle-legs, and on up to his mighty waist, and then, by some device, jerk the cord and send him into revolutions. Then they said that he would actually be a spinning-top and the greatest attraction in the town.

“There’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Stanton,” repeated Judge Lynn, “plenty of fellows around here that you’re better off not to know. It’s expensive to know them.”

“Why, how is that?” inquired Hugh.

“Well, let’s walk around here,” said Lynn, “where we can sit down, and I’ll give you some p’inters that won’t come amiss for you to know.”

Hugh accompanied his new-found acquaintance, who led him around a corner and down a paved alley. A little farther on, the judge knocked; a door was quickly opened. Hugh’s curiosity was soon satisfied. He found himself in the back room of one of the many drug stores of Meade. The place was provided with deal tables, chairs, and lounges. On the walls were hung pictures of the race-track and the prize-ring. The two seated themselves at one or the numerous small tables.

“Well, what’ll you have, Stanton?” asked the judge. “It’s my treat.”

“Seltzer,” replied Hugh.

“Hey, there! seltzer and a beer,” called out the judge to the “druggist” in attendance. “Seltzer may suit you, but beer is good enough for me,” said Judge Lynn. “Fact is I never drink anythin’ stronger ‘n beer until nine o’clock, and then take it straight. My life is guarded ‘round with well-defined rules, and I’m a stickler on rules, and never break ‘em unless the occasion is a little out er the ordinary.”

“I was not aware,” observed Hugh, when the seltzer and a foaming glass of beer had been placed on the table before them, “that we had saloons in Meade. You know Kansas has the reputation of being a great prohibition State.”

“That’s our boast—no open saloons,” said the judge, as he blew the foam from his glass of beer, “we Kansans are mighty particular ‘bout appearances. Now, there’s twenty odd drug stores in this ‘ere town and every one of ‘em has a back door.”

“What!” exclaimed Hugh, “do all the drug stores have a saloon in the rear?”

“Not a saloon, Mr. Stanton,” replied the judge, suavely, “but they all have a restin’-place—a gentleman’s parlor, so to speak, like this, where you can have anythin’ you call for, from a plain seltzer to a Manhattan cocktail, and I might add they’re all doin’ a devilish brisk business.”

“Hey, there!” cried the judge, knocking on the table with his cane, “fill ‘em up again. You see, Mr. Stanton, I was the first representative in the legislature from this county, and, as a true Kansan, am proud of the reputation the State enjoys. We legislate for the people and drink for ourselves, askin’ no questions. Why, there’s Ike Palmer and Bill Young, the editors of the roarin’est temperance organ you ever saw. They are great patrons of these restin’-places on life’s highway. We all meet here on an equal footin’, and no serious jar threatens to interrupt our customs. These temperance editors, in flamin’ editorials, proclaim, week in and week out, the fact that not an open saloon mars or disgraces the fair name of Meade. We all take pride, as a matter of course, in sendin’ these papers to our Eastern friends.”

“I knew all about the theory of prohibition before I came to Kansas,” said Hugh, “but I have received to-day my first actual knowledge of its practice.”

The judge, shutting one eye, looked benignly at Hugh and said, “Your conclusions are pre-matoor, howsomever, I expect, Mr. Stanton. I’m the gol darndest ‘cyclopedia of knowledge that you ever run ag’inst. Say, hold on a minute; my nacheral impulse is to drink, so I guess I’ll have another beer.”

“Beg pardon,” said Hugh, “please drink with me,” and he motioned to the attendant.

“Oh, all right,” acquiesced the judge, “just as you say. I promised to give you some p’inters. This ‘ere expose; as it were, of practical temperance in the Sunflower State is p’inter number one. Now, there’s the professional claim-prover—know anythin’ about him?”

“Nothing whatever,” replied Hugh, as he sipped his seltzer.

“Well, you see I allows it’s my dooty to tell you,” said the judge. “The professional claim-prover started in the eastern part of the State, proved up a quarter-section, sold it out to a mortgage loan company, moved on west to the next county, changed his name, proved up another quarter-section and sold it out to a mortgage company, and so on. These professional provers-up of land are a distinct class. They emigrate from the older counties to the newer ones in swarms, like grasshoppers. Did n’t know about ‘em, did you?”

“I did not,” replied Hugh, “I am very much interested. How do they sell out to the mortgage companies?”

By this time the judge was beginning to feel the influence of drink, and gradually grew more bold and more talkative than ever.

“Well, gee whillikens, Stanton, I must say you’re tender. Don’t know much, do you?”

Hugh admitted that he did not, while secretly finding much amusement at the odd character he had discovered.

“Well, I do; bet yer life I do. ‘Bout these ‘ere claim-pro vers is p’inter number two, and sellin’ out to the mortgage companies is p’inter number three. Here, waiter, by the great horn spoon, I’ve got to have another drink!” said the loquacious judge, rapping on the table. “Wonder if they expect a man’s goin’ to sit ‘round here all night and drink nothin’. I’m hot; hotter’n a burnt boot. Got to have somethin’ cool an’ refreshin’ or I’ll be locoed.”

“What will it be, gentlemen?” asked the attendant.

“Seltzer for me,” said Hugh.

“Seltzer be hanged!” cried the judge, and then recollecting himself, he said, “Beg pardon, Mr. Stanton, what time is it? I left my watch on the piano this mornin’.”

“Just nine o’clock,” replied Hugh, looking at his timepiece.

“Bring me a straight,” said the judge, and then, turning to Hugh, he observed, “I have an idee I can tell the time within ten seconds when nine o’ clock comes ‘round. Habit, you know; habit is everythin’ to a sensitive man. Bet yer life it is. You wanted to know somethin’ about sellin’ out land to mortgage companies. Well, this is the way it’s done: all the big farm mortgage companies in the United States are represented by local agents throughout these new counties in southwestern Kansas. They started out makin’ mighty conservative loans, but at enormous rates of interest. After awhile the loan companies got to competin’ with one another for business. Instead of lowerin’ the rate of interest, as they should have done, they offered to take bigger loans; so, instead of loanin’ a man three hundred dollars on a quarter-section of land that he has just proved up and paid the government a dollar and a quarter an acre for, they ‘re loanin’ one thousand to fifteen hundred dollars on every one hundred and sixty acre tract that is offered. If you’ll consult the records you’ll find that from ten to fifteen thousand dollars is loaned daily on land in this ‘ere county alone. It’s a mighty big county, but they’ll have the last quarter-section mortgaged, by and by; the last link in the elephant’s chain ‘ll be broken sooner or later, and then look out for squalls. The mortgage business is what makes money so plenty on the range now, but mark the words of Judge Lynn and profit by ‘em—the time to make hay is when the sun’s a-shinin’. One of these fine days the bottom ‘ll jest nacherally drop out, and there’ll be a wailin’ and gnashin’ of teeth. Do I know anythin’ more worth tellin’. Well, I should say I did. Have n’t begun to uncork yet. Mighty lucky you met me. Bet yer life.”

“You amaze me,” said Hugh, “I don’t understand why so much confidence is manifested on every hand if your pessimistic views are correct.”

“Mighty easy to explain that,” said the judge, as he ordered another cocktail, “jest as easy as failin’ off a log. You see, ninety per cent, of the people in Meade have come here durin’ the last three years. They’re all tenderfeet and never have experienced a hot wind. Well, for a wonder, this is the third year of roarin’ good crops, but the buffalo-grass is here yet, and as long as it’s in the country these dangnation hot winds are liable to blow. When they come—” and here the judge drained another glass. “As I was sayin’,” he went on, wiping his mouth with his coat sleeve, “when these hot winds do come, they’ll sizzle things up ‘round here into a burnt crisp, like a hot skillet does thin slices of bacon. Bet yer life. Yes, sir! you’ll think it’s a breath from the lower regions for sure, and the hull kit and bilin’ of ‘em will be dumped into a seethin’ sea of bankruptcy, and don’t yer forget it.”

Hugh was greatly interested in the judge’s prophecies. He attributed the judge’s glibness to the liquor he had drunk, but, nevertheless, his words had a ring of prophecy about them. He determined to speak to Captain Osborn the next day in regard to the matter.

“No one ‘round here believes me,” said the judge, “they’re all holdin’ bobtail flushes and tryin’ to bluff nachure; but I’m assoomin’ they’ll be called good an’ plenty. You may speak to Captain Osborn if you like; it won’t do no harm—won’t do no good, nuther. Of course you’ll believe him and go right on as if you’d never heard me talk. Reckon I can tell thoughts when I see ‘em squirmin’ all over a man’s race. Bet yer life I can.”

Hugh arose. “Hold on, Stanton,” said the judge, “not yet; not until I’ve treated the noomerous departed to a whiskey straight. Here, fill ‘em up again,” he called to the attendant. Hugh sat down, and Judge Lynn began again: “Say, have you ever met my old friend, Major Buell Hampton?” Hugh replied that he had. “Well, he’s brainy,” said the judge, “he’s way up—a nacheral born leader. You bet. Ever since he was nominated for the legislature, and refused to run, he’s been regarded by his political associates as the Bismarck of southwestern Kansas. Fact is, he won’t take no office. His editorials are hummers; they keeps a-breedin’ trouble a heap for the Republicans. They’re what converted me to the faith. Bet yer life, I know a political truth when I find it blowin’ ‘round loose.”

“Oh, you’re a Populist, too, are you?” inquired Hugh.

“Bet yer life I am,” replied the judge, enthusiastically, “though I’m not a Barley Huller. Fact is, the Barley Hullers is a great organization, sort o’ select, you know,—the ‘four hundred’ of southwestern Kansas, as it were.”

“That being the case I should suppose you would join them,” said Hugh, with a tinge of irony in his words.

“No, sir!” said the judge, emphatically. “I’ve political aspirations, and if I j’ined, it might be said by designin’, malicious, an’ malignant political enemies that I’d done it to further my political ambitions; and a sensitive man like me, Stanton, could n’t stand that kind of talk and whisperin’ ‘round. Bet yer life I could n’t You look sorter supercilious and disbelievin’, Stanton, but I’m statin’ solid facts; yes, sirree.”

Hugh was about to make a remark, when the judge went on, in a low, confidential tone: “Between us, Stanton, I once put in my application for membership with the Barley Hullers. Never been able to learn definitely what the investigatin’ committee reported, but I do know they were short of oil that night at their lodge-room, and those condemnedly awkward farmers balloted on my application in a practically dark room. Course they could n’t see what colored balls they were droppin’ into the jedgment box. Well, would you believe it—it’s a coincidence, sir, without a parallel—every cussed ball was as black as Egyptian night; yes, sir.”

“Well, that was strange,” replied Hugh, laughing. The judge did not even smile, but said, “Strange! Why, it was devilish strange, and I felt really crushed all one evenin’, but I was too keen a politician to let ‘em see it. Oh, I know two or three legerdemain tricks when it comes to pullin’ wires. Bet yer life I do! I’m a heap too permiscus for any of ‘em.”

They arose from the table, and the judge asked the white-aproned druggist for the bill.

“Remember, a part of it is mine,” said Hugh, taking from his pocket a roll of money.

“Not if the court knows herself,” said the judge, waving Hugh aside with one hand, while he plowed deep into his trousers pocket with the other.

“But I insist,” said Hugh.

A look of dismay and astonishment came over the judge’s face, as he dived first into one pocket, and then into the other. Presently he said, “Stanton, loan me ten dollars. Thanks. Will hand it to you in the mornin’. Here,” said he, turning to the druggist, “take it all out of this. No, Stanton, no, sir! you sha’n’. pay a cent—not a copper. I invited you to take a social glass, and unless you wish to offend me, you’ll say nothin’ more ‘bout payin’. I want you to know you’re coastin’ ‘round town with a highflyer when you’re hobnobbin’ with me, you bet.”

The druggist handed the judge the change, which he put into his pocket, as they went out along the alleyway into the street.

“Well, Judge,” said Hugh, “I am delighted to have met you.”

“Well, sir,” replied the judge, “them’s my sentiments to a dot. Bet yer life. I can give you lots of good p’inters ‘bout this ‘ere country, and don’t you forget it; an’ while my conclusions are sorter pesterin’ idees to Captain Osborn an’ others, still they’re not as raveled and frayed idees as some people will want to make believe. Howsomever, time will stampede ‘em a heap, and don’t you forget it. By the way, Stanton, do you ever finger the pasteboards—play a social game, you know, once in awhile?”

“No, thank you, I never play any game of chance,” replied Hugh.

“Well, I do,” replied the judge; “fact is, I’m a sort of sociable animal, any way you take me. Buck Truax runs a little game over in the back end of his furniture store. I promised to drop in durin’ the evenin’. Politics, Stanton,” said the judge, nudging him with his elbow, “politics, you know. Oh, you bet I know a thing or two. I know how to break eggs with the boys. Well, good night, will see you in the mornin’.”

“Good night, Judge,” said Hugh, accepting his outstretched hand.

As Hugh turned down the street toward the hotel, the moon was shining brightly. When he reached his rooms, he sat by a window which commanded a view of Crooked Creek valley. The coyotes were howling in dismal cadences away to the north, beyond the old mill. Presently he saw a red and green light, and wondered if the Barley Hullers were holding a meeting.