Cobb Irvin Shrewsbury
Old Judge Priest

“The trouble with this here Camp is jest this,” he said: “it’s got a lot of sniffln’ old fools in it that don’t know no better than to bust out cryin’ when they oughter be happy!” And then, as if to prove how deeply he felt the shame of such weakness on the part of others, Judge Priest blew his nose with great violence, and for a space of minutes industriously mopped at his indignant eyes with an enormous pocket handkerchief.

In accordance with a rule, Jeff Poindexter waited up for his employer. Jeff expected him by nine-thirty at the latest; but it was actually getting along toward ten-thirty before Jeff, who had been dozing lightly in the dim-lit hall, oblivious to the fanged attentions of some large mosquitoes, roused as he heard the sound of a rambling but familiar step clunking along the wooden sidewalk of Clay Street. The latch on the front gate clicked, and as Jeff poked his nose out of the front door he heard, down the aisle of trees that bordered the gravel walk, the voice of his master uplifted in solitary song.

In the matter of song the judge had a peculiarity. It made no difference what the words might be or the theme – he sang every song and all songs to a fine, thin, tuneless little air of his own. At this moment Judge Priest, as Jeff gathered, showed a wide range of selection. One second he was announcing that his name it was Joe Bowers and he was all the way from Pike, and the next, stating, for the benefit of all who might care to hear these details, that they – presumably certain horses – were bound to run all night – bound to run all day; so you could bet on the bobtailed nag and he’d bet on the bay. Nearer to the porch steps it boastingly transpired that somebody had jumped aboard the telegraf and steered her by the triggers, whereat the lightnin’ flew and ‘lectri-fied and killed ten thousand niggers! But even so general a catastrophe could not weigh down the singer’s spirits. As he put a fumbling foot upon the lowermost step of the porch, he threw his head far back and shrilly issued the following blanket invitation to ladies resident in a faraway district:

“Oh, Bowery gals, won’t you come out to-night? Won’t you come out to-night?

“Oh, Bowery gals, won’t you come out to-night, And dance by the light of the moon?

“I danced with a gal with a hole in her stockin’; And her heel it kep’ a-rockin’ – kep’ a-rockin’! She was the purtiest gal in the room!”

Jeff pulled the front door wide open. The song stopped and Judge Priest stood in the opening, teetering a little on his heels. His face was all a blushing pink glow – pinker even than common.

“Evenin’, Jedge!” greeted Jeff. “You’re late, suh!”

“Jeff,” said Judge Priest slowly, “it’s a beautiful evenin’.”

Amazed, Jeff stared at him. As a matter of fact, the drizzle of the afternoon had changed, soon after dark, to a steady downpour. The judge’s limpened hat brim dripped raindrops and his shoulders were sopping wet, but Jeff had yet to knowingly and wilfully contradict a prominent white citizen.

“Yas, suh!” he said, half affirmatively, half questioningly. “Is it?”

“It is so!” said Judge Priest. “Every star in the sky shines like a diamond! Jeff, it’s the most beautiful evenin’ I ever remember!”