When Judge Bowker entered his office adjoining the village bank, Justice
Rowan had already arrived. So had McGaw, Dempsey, Crimmins, Quigg, the
president of the board, and one or two of the trustees. The judge had
sent for McGaw and the president, and they had notified the others.
McGaw sat next to Dempsey. His extreme nervousness of a few days
ago--starting almost at the sound of his own footstep--had given place
to a certain air of bravado, now that everybody in the village believed
the horse had kicked Tom.
Babcock and Tom were by the window, she listless and weary, he alert
and watchful for the slightest point in her favor. She had on her brown
dress, washed clean of the blood-stains, and the silk hood, which better
concealed the bruises. All her old fire and energy were gone. It was not
from the shock of her wound,--her splendid constitution was fast healing
that,--but from this deeper hurt, this last thrust of McGaw's which
seemed to have broken her indomitable spirit.
Babcock, although he did not betray his misgivings, was greatly worried
over the outcome of McGaw's latest scheme. He wished in his secret
heart that Tom had signed her own name to the contract. He was afraid
so punctilious a man as the judge might decide against her. He had never
seen him; he only knew that no other judge in his district had so great
a reputation for technical rulings.
When the judge entered--a small, gray-haired, keen-eyed man in a
black suit, with gold spectacles, spotless linen, and clean-shaven
face--Babcock's fears were confirmed. This man, he felt, would be
legally exact, no matter who suffered by his decision.
Rowan opened the case, the judge listening attentively, looking over his
glasses. Rowan recounted the details of the advertisement, the opening
of the bids, the award of the contract, the signing of “Thomas Grogan”
in the presence of the full board, and the discovery by his “honored
client that no such man existed, had not existed for years, and did not
now exist.”
“Dead, your Honor”--throwing out his chest impressively, his voice
swelling--“dead in his grave these siven years, this Mr. Thomas Grogan;
and yet this woman has the bald and impudent effrontery to”--
“That will do, Mr. Rowan.”
Police justices--justices like Rowan--did not count much with Judge
Bowker, and then he never permitted any one to abuse a woman in his
presence.
“The point you make is that Mrs. Grogan had no right to sign her name to
a contract made out in the name of her dead husband.”
“I do, your Honor,” said Rowan, resuming his seat.
“Why did you sign it?” asked Judge Bowker, turning to Tom.