JUDGE HOLLIS was writing in his office. He had been writing five hours
and the green shade of his lamp was awry, while his briar-wood had just
gone out for the ninety-ninth time. Some one knocked twice on the outer
door before he noticed it. Then he shouted: “Come in!”
After some fumbling with the lock the door opened, and Zeb Bartlett’s
shambling figure lurched into the room. He came in boldly, but cowered
as he met the judge’s fierce expression. The old man swung around in
his chair and faced him, his great overhanging brows drawn together
over glowing eyes, and his lip thrust out.
The boy was stricken speechless, and stood hat in hand, feebly rubbing
the back of his head. The judge, who hated interruption and loathed
incompetence, scowled. “What d’ye want here?” he demanded.
Zeb wet his parched lips with his tongue. “I want the law on him,” he
mumbled; “I want the law on him!”
“What in thunder are you mumbling about?” demanded the old man
impatiently; “some one stole your wits?”
“It was him did my sister wrong,” Zeb said, his tongue loosed between
fear and hate; “it’s him, and I want him punished--now they’ve got him!”
Judge Hollis threw the pen that he had been holding suspended into the
ink-well. “See here, Zeb,” he said, “if you can tell us who ruined your
poor crazed sister, why, by the Lord Harry, I’d like to punish him!”
Zeb looked cunning; he edged nearer to the desk. “I can tell you,” he
said, “I can tell you right cl’ar off, but--I want him punished!”
“May be the worst we can do is to make him take care of the child,”
said Judge Hollis.
“That won’t do,” said Zeb, “that ain’t enough; he left her to starve,
and me to starve--she tole me who it was!”
Judge Hollis was not without curiosity, but he restrained it manfully.
He even took his paper-cutter and folded the paper before him in little
plaits. “Zeb,” he said, “it’s a rotten business, but the girl’s dead
and Caleb Trench has taken the child and--”
“It’s him, curse him, it’s him!” Zeb cried, shaking his fist.
Judge Hollis dropped the paper-cutter and rose from his chair, his
great figure, in the long dark blue coat, towering.
“How dare you say that?” he demanded, “you cur--you skunk!”
But Zeb was ugly; he set his teeth, and his crazy eyes flashed. “I tell
you it’s him,” he cried; “ain’t I said she tole me?”
“Damn you, I don’t believe you,” the judge shouted; “it’s money you
want, money!” He grabbed the shaking boy by the nape of the neck, as
a dog takes a rat, and shook him. “You clear out,” he raged, “and you
keep your damned lying, dirty tongue still!” and flung him out and
locked the door.
Then, panting slightly, he went back to his seat, swung it to his
desk again, rolled back his cuffs and wiped the perspiration from his
forehead. Then he pulled his pen out of the ink-well and shook the
surplus ink over the floor and began to write; he wrote two pages
and dropped his pen. His head sank, his big shoulders bowed over,
he was lost in thought. He thought there for an hour, while nothing
stirred except the mouse that was gnawing his old law-books and had
persistently evaded Miss Sarah’s vigilance. Then the judge brought
his great fist down on his desk, and the ink-well danced, and the pen
rolled off.
“My God!” he exclaimed to himself, “I’ve loved him like a son, the girl
was treated like hell--it can’t be true!”
He rose, jammed his hat down on his head and walked out; he walked the
streets for hours.
It was very late when he was admitted to the old jail. It was past time
to admit visitors, but the judge was a privileged person. The warden
gave up his private room to him and sent for the prisoner. The lamp
burnt low on the desk, and the old judge sat before it, heavy with
thought. He looked up mechanically when Caleb came in with his quick
firm step and faced him. The two greeted each other without words, and
Caleb sat down, waiting. He knew his visitor had something on his mind.
Judge Hollis looked at him, studying him, studying the clear-cut lines,
the hollowed cheeks, the clear gray eyes, the chiseled lips,--not a
handsome face, but one of power. The sordid wretchedness of the story,
like a foul weed springing up to choke a useful plant, struck him again
with force and disgust.
“I’ve just seen Zeb Bartlett,” he said; “he’s raving to punish the
man who wronged his sister. He says you did it!” The old man glared
fiercely at the young one.
Caleb’s expression was slightly weary, distinctly disappointed: he
had hoped for something of importance. The story of Jean Bartlett was
utterly unimportant in his life. “I know it,” he said briefly; “it is
easy to accuse, more difficult to prove the truth.”
The judge leaned forward, his clasped hands hanging between his knees,
his head lowered. “Caleb,” he said, “maybe it’s not right to ask you,
but, between man and man, I’d like to know God’s truth.”
Caleb Trench returned the old man’s look calmly. “Judge,” he said,
“have you ever known me to steal?”
The judge shook his head.
“Or to lie?”
Again the judge dissented.
“Then why do you accuse me in your heart of wronging a half-witted
girl?” he asked coldly.
The judge rose from his chair and walked twice across the room; then
he stopped in front of the younger man. “Caleb,” he said, “by the Lord
Harry, I’m plumb ashamed to ask you to forgive me.”
Caleb smiled a little sadly. “Judge,” he said, “there’s nothing to
forgive. Without your friendship I should have been a lost man. I
understand. Slander has a hundred tongues.”
“Zeb Bartlett is shouting the accusation to the four winds of heaven, I
presume,” said the judge, “and there’s the child--you--”
“I’ve taken him,” said Caleb, “and I mean to keep him. I’ve known
poverty, I’ve known homelessness, I’ve known slander; the kid has got
to face it all, and he won’t do it without one friend.”
The judge looked at him a long time, then he went over and clapped his
hand down on his shoulder. “By the Lord Harry!” he said, “you’re a man,
and I respect you. Let them talk--to the devil!”
“Amen!” said Caleb Trench.