Judge Kingsley opened his office door in the ell and called to me.
“I do not transact business in my home,” he informed me, stiffly. He
tapped the sign beside his door. “Z. Kingsley” was its sole inscription,
curtly hinting that no further information was needed regarding that
gentleman. “I do all business in my office, sir.”
I don’t know in just what condition I had been expecting to find the
judge, and I had not planned how I would act when I met him, but I know
mighty well I had not calculated on the sort of meeting we did have.
I found him just as I had found him in times past when we had had a word
or so together--and that was my surprise that day!
I would not have been much astonished if he had fallen on my neck and
sobbed out his gratitude; I rather looked for some demonstration.
To find him the same old, cold, stiff ramrod was outside all my
anticipations. I went in meekly and sat down.
“In the matter of the wood-lot,” he said, perfectly at ease and putting
that jew’s-harp twang in his nose. “I have looked the contracts over.
Young man, I don’t know whether to compliment you as one of the smartest
business men I have ever met, or to have you arrested for an attempt at
grand larceny!”
I did not know what to say to that, and sat and fiddled my finger across
the brim of my plug-hat.
He put out his hand. “Please allow me to look at that receipt I gave
you.”