the last game by a large margin, and was sure he had
his opponent's dodges well in hand. It was early in the evening, and the
grocery was comparatively empty. Robie was figuring at a desk, and old
Judge Brown stood in legal gravity warming his legs at the red-hot
stove, and swaying gently back and forth in speechless content. It was a
tough night outside, one of the toughest for years. The frost had
completely shut the window panes as with thick blankets of snow. The
streets were silent.

"I don't know," said the Judge, reflectively, to Robie, breaking the
silence in his rasping, judicial bass, "I don't know as there has been
such a night as this since the night of February 2d, '59; that was the
night James Kirk went under--Honorable Kirk, you remember--knew him
well. Brilliant fellow, ornament to Western bar. But whisky downed him.
It'll beat the oldest man--I wonder where the boys all are to-night?
Don't seem to be any one stirring on the street. Ain't frightened out by
the cold?"

"Shouldn't wonder." Robie was busy at his desk, and not in humor for
conversation on reminiscent lines. The two old war-dogs at the board had
settled down to one of those long, silent struggles which ensue when two
champions meet. In the silence which followed, the Judge was looking
attentively at the back of the Colonel, and thinking that the old thief
was getting about down to skin and bone. He turned with a yawn to Robie,
saying:

"This cold weather must take hold of the old Colonel terribly, he's so
damnably thin and bald, you know,--bald as a babe. The fact is, the old
Colonel ain't long for this world, anyway; think so, Hank?" Robie making
no reply, the Judge relapsed into silence for awhile, watching the cat
(perilously walking along the edge of the upper shelf) and listening to
the occasional hurrying footsteps outside. "I don't know _when_ I've
seen the windows closed up so, Hank; go down to thirty below to-night;
devilish strong wind blowing, too; tough night on the prairies, Hank."

"You bet," replied Hank, briefly.

The Colonel was plainly getting excited. His razor-like back curved
sharper than ever as he peered into the intricacies of the board to spy
the trap which the fat Squire had set for him. At this point the squeal
of boots on the icy walk outside paused, and a moment later Amos Ridings
entered, with whiskers covered with ice, and looking like a huge bear in
his buffalo coat.

"By Josephus! it's cold," he roared