This he sealed and despatched by his trusted servant Jim, and then
devoted a few moments to reflection. It was the custom of the
Colonel to act first, and justify the action by reason afterwards.
He knew that Hotchkiss would at once lay the matter before rival
counsel. He knew that they would advise him that Miss Hooker had
“no case”—that she would be nonsuited on her own evidence, and he
ought not to compromise, but be ready to stand trial. He believed,
however, that Hotchkiss feared that exposure, and although his
own instincts had been at first against that remedy, he was now
instinctively in favor of it. He remembered his own power with a
jury; his vanity and his chivalry alike approved of this heroic
method; he was bound by the prosaic facts—he had his own theory
of the case, which no mere evidence could gainsay. In fact, Mrs.
Hooker’s own words that “he was to tell the story in his own way”
actually appeared to him an inspiration and a prophecy.
Perhaps there was something else, due possibly to the lady’s
wonderful eyes, of which he had thought much. Yet it was not her
simplicity that affected him solely; on the contrary, it was her
apparent intelligent reading of the character of her recreant
lover—and of his own! Of all the Colonel’s previous “light” or
“serious” loves none had ever before flattered him in that way. And
it was this, combined with the respect which he had held for their
professional relations, that precluded his having a more familiar
knowledge of his client, through serious questioning, or playful
gallantry. I am not sure it was not part of the charm to have a
rustic _femme incomprise_ as a client.
Nothing could exceed the respect with which he greeted her as she
entered his office the next day. He even affected not to notice
that she had put on her best clothes, and he made no doubt appeared
as when she had first attracted the mature yet faithless attentions
of Deacon Hotchkiss at church. A white virginal muslin was belted
around her slim figure by a blue ribbon, and her Leghorn hat was
drawn around her oval cheek by a bow of the same color. She had a
Southern girl’s narrow feet, encased in white stockings and kid
slippers, which were crossed primly before her as she sat in a
chair, supporting her arm by her faithful parasol planted firmly
on the floor. A faint odor of southernwood exhaled from her, and,
oddly enough, stirred the Colonel with a far-off recollection of a
pine-shaded Sunday school on a Georgia hillside and of his first
love, aged ten, in a short, starched frock. Possibly it was the
same recollection that revived something of the awkwardness he had
felt then.
He, however, smiled vaguely and, sitting down, coughed slightly,
and placed his fingertips together. “I have had an—er—interview
with Mr. Hotchkiss, but—I—er—regret to say there seems to be
no prospect of—er—compromise.” He paused, and to his surprise
her listless “company” face lit up with an adorable smile. “Of
course!—ketch him!” she said. “Was he mad when you told him?” She
put her knees comfortably together and leaned forward for a reply.
For all that, wild horses could not have torn from the Colonel
a word about Hotchkiss’s anger. “He expressed his intention of
employing counsel—and defending a suit,” returned the Colonel,
affably basking in her smile. She dragged her chair nearer his
desk. “Then you’ll fight him tooth and nail?” she said eagerly;
“you’ll show him up? You’ll tell the whole story your own way?
You’ll give him fits?—and you’ll make him pay? Sure?” she went on,
breathlessly.
“I—er—will,” said the Colonel, almost as breathlessly.
She caught his fat white hand, which was lying on the table,
between her own and lifted it to her lips. He felt her soft
young fingers even through the lisle-thread gloves that encased
them and the warm moisture of her lips upon his skin. He felt
himself flushing—but was unable to break the silence or change his
position. The next moment she had scuttled back with her chair to
her old position.
“I—er—certainly shall do my best,” stammered the Colonel, in an
attempt to recover his dignity and composure.
“That’s enough! You’ll _do_ it,” said the girl, enthusiastically.
“Lordy! Just you talk for _me_ as ye did for _his_ old Ditch
Company, and you’ll fetch it—every time! Why, when you made that
jury sit up the other day—when you got that off about the Merrikan
flag waving equally over the rights of honest citizens banded
together in peaceful commercial pursuits, as well as over the
fortress of official proflig—”
“Oligarchy,” murmured the Colonel, courteously.
“Oligarchy,” repeated the girl, quickly, “my breath was just took
away. I said to maw, ‘Ain’t he too sweet for anything!’ I did,
honest Injin! And when you rolled it all off at the end—never
missing a word—(you didn’t need to mark ’em in a lesson-book, but
had ’em all ready on your tongue), and walked out—Well! I didn’t
know you nor the Ditch Company from Adam, but I could have just run
over and kissed you there before the whole court!”
She laughed, with her face glowing, although her strange eyes were
cast down. Alack! the Colonel’s face was equally flushed, and
his own beady eyes were on his desk. To any other woman he would
have voiced the banal gallantry that he should now, himself, look
forward to that reward, but the words never reached his lips. He
laughed, coughed slightly, and when he looked up again she had
fallen into the same attitude as on her first visit, with her
parasol point on the floor.
“I must ask you to—er—direct your memory—to—er—another point; the
breaking off of the—er—er—er—engagement. Did he—er—give any reason
for it? Or show any cause?”
“No; he never said anything,” returned the girl.
“Not in his usual way?—er—no reproaches out of the hymn-book?—or
the sacred writings?”
“No; he just _quit_.”
“Er—ceased his attentions,” said the Colonel, gravely. “And
naturally you—er—were not conscious of any cause for his doing so.”
The girl raised her wonderful eyes so suddenly and so penetratingly
without reply in any other way that the Colonel could only
hurriedly say: “I see! None, of course!”
At which she rose, the Colonel rising also. “We—shall begin
proceedings at once. I must, however, caution you to answer no
questions nor say anything about this case to any one until you are
in court.”
She answered his request with another intelligent look and a nod.
He accompanied her to the door. As he took her proffered hand he
raised the lisle-thread fingers to his lips with old-fashioned
gallantry. As if that act had condoned for his first omissions and
awkwardness, he became his old-fashioned self again, buttoned his
coat, pulled out his shirt frill, and strutted back to his desk.
A day or two later it was known throughout the town that Zaidee
Hooker had sued Adoniram Hotchkiss for breach of promise, and
that the damages were laid at five thousand dollars. As in those
bucolic days the Western press was under the secure censorship of
a revolver, a cautious tone of criticism prevailed, and any gossip
was confined to personal expression, and even then at the risk of
the gossiper. Nevertheless, the situation provoked the intensest
curiosity. The Colonel was approached—until his statement that he
should consider any attempt to overcome his professional secrecy
a personal reflection withheld further advances. The community
were left to the more ostentatious information of the defendant’s
counsel, Messrs. Kitcham and Bilser, that the case was “ridiculous”
and “rotten,” that the plaintiff would be nonsuited, and the
fire-eating Starbottle would be taught a lesson that he could not
“bully” the law—and there were some dark hints of a conspiracy.
It was even hinted that the “case” was the revengeful and
preposterous outcome of the refusal of Hotchkiss to pay Starbottle
an extravagant fee for his late services to the Ditch Company.
It is unnecessary to say that these words were not reported to
the Colonel. It was, however, an unfortunate circumstance for
the calmer, ethical consideration of the subject that the church
sided with Hotchkiss, as this provoked an equal adherence to
the plaintiff and Starbottle on the part of the larger body of
non-church-goers, who were delighted at a possible exposure of the
weakness of religious rectitude. “I’ve allus had my suspicions o’
them early candle-light meetings down at that gospel shop,” said
one critic, “and I reckon Deacon Hotchkiss didn’t rope in the gals
to attend jest for psalm-singing.” “Then for him to get up and
leave the board afore the game’s finished and try to sneak out of
it,” said another. “I suppose that’s what they call _religious_.”
It was therefore not remarkable that the courthouse three weeks
later was crowded with an excited multitude of the curious and
sympathizing. The fair plaintiff, with her mother, was early in
attendance, and under the Colonel’s advice appeared in the same
modest garb in which she had first visited his office. This and her
downcast modest demeanor were perhaps at first disappointing to the
crowd, who had evidently expected a paragon of loveliness—as the
Circe of the grim ascetic defendant, who sat beside his counsel.
But presently all eyes were fixed on the Colonel, who certainly
made up in _his_ appearance any deficiency of his fair client.
His portly figure was clothed in a blue dress-coat with brass
buttons, a buff waistcoat which permitted his frilled shirt front
to become erectile above it, a black satin stock which confined
a boyish turned-down collar around his full neck, and immaculate
drill trousers, strapped over varnished boots. A murmur ran round
the court. “Old ‘Personally Responsible’ had got his war-paint on,”
“The Old War-Horse is smelling powder,” were whispered comments.
Yet for all that the most irreverent among them recognized vaguely,
in this bizarre figure, something of an honored past in their
country’s history, and possibly felt the spell of old deeds and old
names that had once thrilled their boyish pulses. The new District
Judge returned Colonel Starbottle’s profoundly punctilious bow.
The Colonel was followed by his negro servant, carrying a parcel
of hymn-books and Bibles, who, with a courtesy evidently imitated
from his master, placed one before the opposite counsel. This,
after a first curious glance, the lawyer somewhat superciliously
tossed aside. But when Jim, proceeding to the jury-box, placed with
equal politeness the remaining copies before the jury, the opposite
counsel sprang to his feet.
“I want to direct the attention of the Court to this unprecedented
tampering with the jury, by this gratuitous exhibition of matter
impertinent and irrelevant to the issue.”
The Judge cast an inquiring look at Colonel Starbottle.
“May it please the Court,” returned Colonel Starbottle with
dignity, ignoring the counsel, “the defendant’s counsel will
observe that he is already furnished with the matter—which I regret
to say he has treated—in the presence of the Court—and of his
client, a deacon of the church—with—er—-great superciliousness.
When I state to your Honor that the books in question are
hymn-books and copies of the _Holy Scriptures_, and that they are
for the instruction of the jury, to whom I shall have to refer them
in the course of my opening, I believe I am within my rights.”
“The act is certainly unprecedented,” said the Judge, dryly,
“but unless the counsel for the plaintiff expects the jury to
_sing_ from these hymn-books, their introduction is not improper,
and I cannot admit the objection. As defendant’s counsel are
furnished with copies also, they cannot plead ‘surprise,’ as in
the introduction of new matter, and as plaintiff’s counsel relies
evidently upon the jury’s attention to his opening, he would not
be the first person to distract it.” After a pause he added,
addressing the Colonel, who remained standing, “The Court is with
you, sir; proceed.”
But the Colonel remained motionless and statuesque, with folded
arms.
“I have overruled the objection,” repeated the Judge; “you may go
on.”
“I am waiting, your Honor, for the—er—withdrawal by the defendant’s
counsel of the word ‘tampering,’ as refers to myself, and of
‘impertinent,’ as refers to the sacred volumes.”
“The request is a proper one, and I have no doubt will be acceded
to,” returned the Judge, quietly. The defendant’s counsel rose and
mumbled a few words of apology, and the incident closed. There
was, however, a general feeling that the Colonel had in some
way “scored,” and if his object had been to excite the greatest
curiosity about the books, he had made his point.
But impassive of his victory, he inflated his chest, with his right
hand in the breast of his buttoned coat, and began. His usual high
color had paled slightly, but the small pupils of his prominent
eyes glittered like steel. The young girl leaned forward in her
chair with an attention so breathless, a sympathy so quick, and
an admiration so artless and unconscious that in an instant she
divided with the speaker the attention of the whole assemblage. It
was very hot; the court was crowded to suffocation; even the open
windows revealed a crowd of faces outside the building, eagerly
following the Colonel’s words.
He would remind the jury that only a few weeks ago he stood there
as the advocate of a powerful company, then represented by the
present defendant. He spoke then as the champion of strict justice
against legal oppression; no less should he to-day champion the
cause of the unprotected and the comparatively defenseless—save
for that paramount power which surrounds beauty and innocence—even
though the plaintiff of yesterday was the defendant of to-day.
As he approached the court a moment ago he had raised his eyes
and beheld the starry flag flying from its dome—and he knew that
glorious banner was a symbol of the perfect equality, under the
Constitution, of the rich and the poor, the strong and the weak—an
equality which made the simple citizen taken from the plough in
the veld, the pick in the gulch, or from behind the counter in
the mining town, who served on that jury, the equal arbiters of
justice with that highest legal luminary whom they were proud to
welcome on the bench to-day. The Colonel paused, with a stately bow
to the impassive Judge. It was this, he continued, which lifted
his heart as he approached the building. And yet—he had entered it
with an uncertain—he might almost say—a timid step. And why? He
knew, gentlemen, he was about to confront a profound—aye! a sacred
responsibility! Those hymn-books and holy writings handed to the
jury were _not_, as his Honor surmised, for the purpose of enabling
the jury to indulge in—er—preliminary choral exercise! He might,
indeed, say “alas not!” They were the damning, incontrovertible
proofs of the perfidy of the defendant. And they would prove as
terrible a warning to him as the fatal characters upon Belshazzar’s
wall. There was a strong sensation. Hotchkiss turned a sallow
green. His lawyers assumed a careless smile.
It was his duty to tell them that this was not one of those
ordinary “breach-of-promise” cases which were too often the
occasion of ruthless mirth and indecent levity in the courtroom.
The jury would find nothing of that here, There were no
love-letters with the epithets of endearment, nor those mystic
crosses and ciphers which, he had been credibly informed, chastely
hid the exchange of those mutual caresses known as “kisses.” There
was no cruel tearing of the veil from those sacred privacies of the
human affection—there was no forensic shouting out of those fond
confidences meant only for _one_. But there was, he was shocked
to say, a new sacrilegious intrusion. The weak pipings of Cupid
were mingled with the chorus of the saints—the sanctity of the
temple known as the “meeting-house” was desecrated by proceedings
more in keeping with the shrine of Venus—and the inspired writings
themselves were used as the medium of amatory and wanton flirtation
by the defendant in his sacred capacity as Deacon.
The Colonel artistically paused after this thunderous denunciation.
The jury turned eagerly to the leaves of the hymn-books, but
the larger gaze of the audience remained fixed upon the speaker
and the girl, who sat in rapt admiration of his periods. After
the hush, the Colonel continued in a lower and sadder voice:
“There are, perhaps, few of us here, gentlemen—with the exception
of the defendant—who can arrogate to themselves the title of
regular churchgoers, or to whom these humbler functions of the
prayer-meeting, the Sunday-school, and the Bible class are
habitually familiar. Yet”—more solemnly—“down in your hearts is
the deep conviction of our short-comings and failings, and a
laudable desire that others at least should profit by the teachings
we neglect. Perhaps,” he continued, closing his eyes dreamily,
“there is not a man here who does not recall the happy days of his
boyhood, the rustic village spire, the lessons shared with some
artless village maiden, with whom he later sauntered, hand in hand,
through the woods, as the simple rhyme rose upon their lips,
Always make it a point to have it a rule
Never to be late at the Sabbath-school.
He would recall the strawberry feasts, the welcome annual picnic,
redolent with hunks of gingerbread and sarsaparilla. How would
they feel to know that these sacred recollections were now forever
profaned in their memory by the knowledge that the defendant was
capable of using such occasions to make love to the larger girls
and teachers, whilst his artless companions were innocently—the
Court will pardon me for introducing what I am credibly informed
is the local expression ‘doing gooseberry’?” The tremulous flicker
of a smile passed over the faces of the listening crowd, and the
Colonel slightly winced. But he recovered himself instantly, and
continued:
“My client, the only daughter of a widowed mother—who has for
years stemmed the varying tides of adversity—in the western
precincts of this town—stands before you to-day invested only in
her own innocence. She wears no—er—rich gifts of her faithless
admirer—is panoplied in no jewels, rings, nor mementoes of
affection such as lovers delight to hang upon the shrine of their
affections; hers is not the glory with which Solomon decorated
the Queen of Sheba, though the defendant, as I shall show later,
clothed her in the less expensive flowers of the king’s poetry.
No! gentlemen! The defendant exhibited in this affair a certain
frugality of—er—pecuniary investment, which I am willing to admit
may be commendable in his class. His only gift was characteristic
alike of his methods and his economy. There is, I understand, a
certain not unimportant feature of religious exercise known as
‘taking a collection.’ The defendant, on this occasion, by the
mute presentation of a tip plate covered with baize, solicited
the pecuniary contributions of the faithful. On approaching the
plaintiff, however, he himself slipped a love-token upon the
plate and pushed it towards her. That love-token was a lozenge—a
small disk, I have reason to believe, concocted of peppermint
and sugar, bearing upon its reverse surface the simple words,
‘I love you!’ I have since ascertained that these disks may be
bought for five cents a dozen—or at considerably less than one
half-cent for the single lozenge. Yes, gentlemen, the words ‘I love
you!‘—the oldest legend of all; the refrain, ‘when the morning
stars sang together’—were presented to the plaintiff by a medium so
insignificant that there is, happily, no coin in the republic low
enough to represent its value.
“I shall prove to you, gentlemen of the jury,” said the Colonel,
solemnly, drawing a _Bible_ from his coat-tail pocket, “that
the defendant, for the last twelve months, conducted an amatory
correspondence with the plaintiff by means of underlined words of
sacred writ and church psalmody, such as ‘beloved,’ ‘precious,’
and ‘dearest,’ occasionally appropriating whole passages which
seemed apposite to his tender passion. I shall call your attention
to one of them. The defendant, while professing to be a total
abstainer—a man who, in my own knowledge, has refused spirituous
refreshment as an inordinate weakness of the flesh, with shameless
hypocrisy underscores with his pencil the following passage and
presents it to the plaintiff. The gentlemen of the jury will find
it in the _Song of Solomon_, page 548, chapter II, verse 5.” After
a pause, in which the rapid rustling of leaves was heard in the
jury-box, Colonel Starbottle declaimed in a pleading, stentorian
voice, “‘Stay me with —er—_flagons_, comfort me with—er—apples—for
I am—er—sick of love.’ Yes, gentlemen!—yes, you may well turn
from those accusing pages and look at the double-faced defendant.
He desires—to—er—be —‘stayed with flagons’! I am not aware, at
present, what kind of liquor is habitually dispensed at these
meetings, and for which the defendant so urgently clamored; but it
will be my duty before this trial is over to discover it, if I have
to summon every barkeeper in this district. For the moment, I will
simply call your attention to the _quantity_. It is not a single
drink that the defendant asks for—not a glass of light and generous
wine, to be shared with his inamorata—but a number of flagons or
vessels, each possibly holding a pint measure—_for himself_!”
The smile of the audience had become a laugh. The Judge looked up
warningly, when his eye caught the fact that the Colonel had again
winced at this mirth. He regarded him seriously. Mr. Hotchkiss’s
counsel had joined in the laugh affectedly, but Hotchkiss himself
was ashy pale. There was also a commotion in the jury-box, a
hurried turning over of leaves, and an excited discussion.
“The gentlemen of the jury,” said the Judge, with official gravity,
“will please keep order and attend only to the speeches of counsel.
Any discussion _here_ is irregular and premature—and must be
reserved for the jury-room—after they have retired.”
The foreman of the jury struggled to his feet. He was a powerful
man, with a good-humored face, and, in spite of his unfelicitous
nickname of “The Bone-Breaker,” had a kindly, simple, but somewhat
emotional nature. Nevertheless, it appeared as if he were laboring
under some powerful indignation.
“Can we ask a question, Judge?” he said, respectfully, although his
voice had the unmistakable Western-American ring in it, as of one
who was unconscious that he could be addressing any but his peers.
“Yes,” said the Judge, good-humoredly.
“We’re finding in this yere piece, out of which the Kernel hes
just bin a-quotin’, some language that me and my pardners allow
hadn’t orter to be read out afore a young lady in court—and we
want to know of you—ez a fair-minded and impartial man—ef this
is the reg’lar kind o’ book given to gals and babies down at the
meetin’-house.”
“The jury will please follow the counsel’s speech, without
comment,” said the Judge, briefly, fully aware that the defendant’s
counsel would spring to his feet, as he did promptly. “The Court
will allow us to explain to the gentlemen that the language they
seem to object to has been accepted by the best theologians for
the last thousand years as being purely mystic. As I will explain
later, those are merely symbols of the Church—”
“Of wot?” interrupted the foreman, in deep scorn.
“Of the Church!”
“We ain’t askin’ any questions o’ _you_—and we ain’t takin’ any
answers,” said the foreman, sitting down promptly.
“I must insist,” said the Judge, sternly, “that the plaintiff’s
counsel be allowed to continue his opening without interruption.
You” (to defendant’s counsel) “will have your opportunity to reply
later.”
The counsel sank down in his seat with the bitter conviction
that the jury was manifestly against him, and the case as good
as lost. But his face was scarcely as disturbed as his client’s,
who, in great agitation, had begun to argue with him wildly, and
was apparently pressing some point against the lawyer’s vehement
opposal. The Colonel’s murky eyes brightened as he still stood
erect with his hand thrust in his breast.
“It will be put to you, gentlemen, when the counsel on the other
side refrains from mere interruption and confines himself to reply,
that my unfortunate client has no action—no remedy at law—because
there were no spoken words of endearment. But, gentlemen, it will
depend upon _you_ to say what are and what are not articulate
expressions of love. We all know that among the lower animals, with
whom you may possibly be called upon to classify the defendant,
there are certain signals more or less harmonious, as the case
may be. The ass brays, the horse neighs, the sheep bleats—the
feathered denizens of the grove call to their mates in more musical
roundelays. These are recognized facts, gentlemen, which you
yourselves, as dwellers among nature in this beautiful land, are
all cognizant of. They are facts that no one would deny—and we
should have a poor opinion of the ass who, at—er—such a supreme
moment, would attempt to suggest that his call was unthinking and
without significance. But, gentlemen, I shall prove to you that
such was the foolish, self-convicting custom of the defendant. With
the greatest reluctance, and the—er—greatest pain, I succeeded in
wresting from the maidenly modesty of my fair client the innocent
confession that the defendant had induced her to correspond
with him in these methods. Picture to yourself, gentlemen, the
lonely moonlight road beside the widow’s humble cottage. It is a
beautiful night, sanctified to the affections, and the innocent
girl is leaning from her casement. Presently there appears upon
the road a slinking, stealthy figure—the defendant, on his way to
church. True to the instruction she has received from him, her
lips part in the musical utterance” (the Colonel lowered his voice
in a faint falsetto, presumably in fond imitation of his fair
client),“‘Kerree!’ Instantly the night became resonant with the
impassioned reply” (the Colonel here lifted his voice in stentorian
tones), “‘Kerrow.’ Again, as he passes, rises the soft ‘Kerree’;
again, as his form is lost in the distance, comes back the deep
‘Kerrow.’”
A burst of laughter, long, loud, and irrepressible, struck the
whole courtroom, and before the Judge could lift his half-composed
face and take his handkerchief from his mouth, a faint “Kerree”
from some unrecognized obscurity of the courtroom was followed by a
loud “Kerrow” from some opposite locality. “The sheriff will clear
the court,” said the Judge, sternly; but alas, as the embarrassed
and choking officials rushed hither and thither, a soft “Kerree”
from the spectators at the window, _outside_ the courthouse, was
answered by a loud chorus of “Kerrows” from the opposite windows,
filled with onlookers. Again the laughter arose everywhere—even the
fair plaintiff herself sat convulsed behind her handkerchief.
The figure of Colonel Starbottle alone remained erect—white and
rigid. And then the Judge, looking up, saw what no one else in the
court had seen—that the Colonel was sincere and in earnest; that
what he had conceived to be the pleader’s most perfect acting,
and most elaborate irony, were the deep, serious, mirthless
_convictions_ of a man without the least sense of humor. There was
a touch of this respect in the Judge’s voice as he said to him,
gently, “You may proceed, Colonel Starbottle.”
“I thank your Honor,” said the Colonel, slowly, “for recognizing
and doing all in your power to prevent an interruption that,
during my thirty years’ experience at the bar, I have never yet
been subjected to without the privilege of holding the instigators
thereof responsible—_personally_ responsible. It is possibly my
fault that I have failed, oratorically, to convey to the gentlemen
of the jury the full force and significance of the defendant’s
signals. I am aware that my voice is singularly deficient in
producing either the dulcet tones of my fair client or the
impassioned vehemence of the defendant’s repose. I will,” continued
the Colonel, with a fatigued but blind fatuity that ignored the
hurriedly knit brows and warning eyes of the Judge, “try again.
The note uttered by my client” (lowering his voice to the faintest
of falsettos) “was ‘Kerree’; the response was ‘Kerrow’”—and the
Colonel’s voice fairly shook the dome above him.
Another uproar of laughter followed this apparently audacious
repetition, but was interrupted by an unlooked-for incident.
The defendant rose abruptly, and tearing himself away from the
withholding hand and pleading protestations of his counsel,
absolutely fled from the courtroom, his appearance outside being
recognized by a prolonged “Kerrow” from the bystanders, which
again and again followed him in the distance. In the momentary
silence which followed, the Colonel’s voice was heard saying, “We
rest here, your Honor,” and he sat down. No less white, but more
agitated, was the face of the defendant’s counsel, who instantly
rose.
“For some unexplained reason, your Honor, my client desires to
suspend further proceedings, with a view to effect a peaceable
compromise with the plaintiff. As he is a man of wealth and
position, he is able and willing to pay liberally for that
privilege. While I, as his counsel, am still convinced of his legal
irresponsibility, as he has chosen, however, to publicly abandon
his rights here, I can only ask your Honor’s permission to suspend
further proceedings until I can confer with Colonel Starbottle.”
“As far as I can follow the pleadings,” said the Judge, gravely,
“the case seems to be hardly one for litigation, and I approve of
the defendant’s course, while I strongly urge the plaintiff to
accept it.”
Colonel Starbottle bent over his fair client. Presently he rose,
unchanged in look or demeanor. “I yield, your Honor, to the wishes
of my client, and—er—lady. We accept.”
Before the court adjourned that day it was known throughout the
town that Adoniram K. Hotchkiss had compromised the suit for four
thousand dollars and costs.
Colonel Starbottle had so far recovered his equanimity as to strut
jauntily towards his office, where he was to meet his fair client.
He was surprised, however, to find her already there, and in
company with a somewhat sheepish-looking young man—a stranger. If
the Colonel had any disappointment in meeting a third party to the
interview, his old-fashioned courtesy did not permit him to show
it. He bowed graciously, and politely motioned them each to a seat.
“I reckoned I’d bring Hiram round with me,” said the young lady,
lifting her searching eyes, after a pause, to the Colonel’s,
“though he was awful shy, and allowed that you didn’t know him from
Adam—or even suspected his existence. But I said, ‘That’s just
where you slip up, Hiram; a pow’ful man like the Colonel knows
everything—and I’ve seen it in his eye.’ Lordy!” she continued,
with a laugh, leaning forward over her parasol, as her eyes again
sought the Colonel’s, “don’t you remember when you asked me if I
loved that old Hotchkiss, and I told you ‘That’s tellin’,’ and you
looked at me, Lordy! I knew _then_ you suspected there was a Hiram
_somewhere_—as good as if I’d told you. Now, you, jest get up,
Hiram, and give the Colonel a good handshake. For if it wasn’t for
_him_ and _his_ searchin’ ways, and _his_ awful power of language,
I wouldn’t hev got that four thousand dollars out o’ that flirty
fool Hotchkiss—enough to buy a farm, so as you and me could get
married! That’s what you owe to _him_. Don’t stand there like a
stuck fool starin’ at him. He won’t eat you—though he’s killed many
a better man. Come, have _I_ got to do _all_ the kissin’!”
It is of record that the Colonel bowed so courteously and so
profoundly that he managed not merely to evade the proffered hand
of the shy Hiram, but to only lightly touch the franker and more
impulsive fingertips of the gentle Zaidee. “I—er—offer my sincerest
congratulations—though I think you—er—overestimate—my—er—powers
of penetration. Unfortunately, a pressing engagement, which may
oblige me also to leave town to-night, forbids my saying more. I
have—er—left the—er—business settlement of this—er—case in the
hands of the lawyers who do my office-work, and who will show you
every attention. And now let me wish you a very good afternoon.”
Nevertheless, the Colonel returned to his private room, and it was
nearly twilight when the faithful Jim entered, to find him sitting
meditatively before his desk. “‘Fo’ God! Kernel—I hope dey ain’t
nuffin de matter, but you’s lookin’ mightly solemn! I ain’t seen
you look dat way, Kernel, since de day pooh Marse Stryker was
fetched home shot froo de head.”
“Hand me down the whiskey, Jim,” said the Colonel, rising slowly.
The negro flew to the closet joyfully, and brought out the bottle.
The Colonel poured out a glass of the spirit and drank it with his
old deliberation.
“You’re quite right, Jim,” he said, putting down his glass, “but
I’m—er—getting old—and—somehow—I am missing poor Stryker damnably!”