THE JUDGE GETS A SHOCK
Princess Sukey stood severely staring at the Judge.
He was in his favorite place—in his own study, with his own dear books,
in his own capacious armchair, and with his door wide open for little
Bethany’s noon homecoming.
It was not yet time for her to come, and to-day she would be late, for
she had warned “Daddy Grandpa” that she must stay for a few minutes
after school to talk about a birthday party that one of her schoolmates
was about to give.
In the meantime the Judge, sitting comfortably back in his chair, was
occupied with his own thoughts, and uncommonly lively thoughts they
were, judging by his face.
The pigeon stared still more severely. Being of a serious disposition,
she never approved of laughter—and the Judge was laughing now.
He was thinking of Airy. Her pranks amused him immensely. The day before
she had been invited to dine with him. The Judge could see her coming
into the room, her mouth primly set, her sharp eyes going to and fro.
She did nothing spontaneously. With slavish imitation she studied the
other children. She ate as Bethany did, she made use of Dallas’s and
Titus’s phrases, and if she had not one of theirs at hand she kept
silence.
“Upon my word, Sukey,” said the Judge, mischievously, to the pigeon, “I
believe Airy is going to make a lady of herself, after all. They say
that a faithful imitation is a good original. I foresee, though, many
lessons ahead for us. The little witch has made up her mind to spend a
good part of her time in studying us. Well, we don’t care—we don’t
care,” and he laughed again.
“It seems to me,” he said at last, taking off his glasses and wiping
them with his handkerchief, “that I laugh far more over children than I
used to. I believe that as a young man I took my family too seriously.
Certain it is that I get more real amusement and enjoyment out of the
children of my adoption than I did out of my own dear little ones. How I
wish I had them round me now!” and he sighed.
The pigeon wrathfully shook herself. She wanted no more children about.
There were too many now for her taste, and elevating her head she said,
sharply, a great many times, “Rookety cahoo! rookety cahoo!”
The Judge looked at her. Her greenish-yellow eyes were fixed on him with
a steady glare. They seemed to mesmerize him, and in two minutes the
Judge’s dear old white head was nodding.
He was having forty winks before luncheon, but during the forty winks he
had time to dream. He was facing a crowded courtroom, there was trouble
somewhere; he did not seem to know just what it was. A great noise and
confusion uprose. He tried to speak, but could not, and in his distress
he awoke.
When he went to sleep the room had been quiet, the house was quiet, the
street was quiet. Now the noise in his dream seemed to have followed him
into real life—or did he fancy it? and he put up a hand as if to stop
the singing in his ears. He hoped he was not getting deaf.
There certainly was a noise, a great noise abroad, and it was not in his
ears. He heard carriages in the street and banging of doors, loud voices
in the hall below, and now there were persons rushing upstairs.
He was still slightly confused. He had a vision of the pigeon listening,
her hooded head on one side, her body vibrating with anger, then a dozen
or more persons hurried into the room and invaded his armchair.
The Judge sat helplessly back and looked at them. What was the matter?
Foremost among the newcomers was young Mrs. Everest, her face like a
poppy, the plumes of her big hat nodding against his white head as she
bent over him.
She was almost screaming, she was so excited. “You dear old man, I’ve
always wanted to kiss you, and I’m going to do so now.”
The Judge smiled feebly. Did she, too, want to be adopted? He made no
resistance, but he certainly made no response as her affectionate arms
were thrown round him and a kiss was sweetly placed on his forehead.
It was a congratulatory embrace, he felt that; but what had he done,
what had happened?
“Allow me to shake hands and felicitate you,” said a second joyful
voice, and Berty’s husband seized and wrung his hand.
The Judge struggled out of his chair. There was Berty’s brother
Boniface, there were several young Everests, there were Charlie Brown,
Titus, Dallas, and some other boys that he did not know, and what were
those two young fellows doing with notebooks? Reporters, of course.
Oblivious of the chatter and confusion about them they were rapidly
taking notes, their eyes going all round the room, even to the top of
the bookcase, where stood an indignant, frightened pigeon looking down
at this invasion of her home.
The Judge soon forgot the reporters. He was just about to ask what he
had done that he should be written up for the press when his dismayed
eyes fell on a little creature somewhat in the background.
Who was that? If he were in his sane mind he would say that it was
Bethany dressed as a boy. Her hair was cut short, she had on a boy’s
suit of clothes, and, astonishing to tell, she, quite oblivious of the
laughing and talking about her, was amusing herself by playing horse on
a chair that she had overturned.
She was astride it. “Gee up, horsie,” the Judge heard her say, and she
whipped and beat the chair with her plump little palm.
The Judge gazed helplessly at Mrs. Everest and ejaculated, “Is she
crazy?”
“Poor little dear,” said the young woman, indignantly, “those wretches
played on her lively imagination and tried to transform her into a boy.”
“What wretches?” asked the Judge, feebly, but Mrs. Everest had too
little command of herself to answer him. “There’s the Mayor,” she cried,
“I hear his voice,” and she ran out in the hall.
“More carriages!” one young Everest squealed, and they, too, dashed out.
“Tom Everest,” said the Judge, solemnly, to Berty’s husband, “what is
this all about?”
“Yes, sir,” said Tom, absently, and the Judge knew that he had not heard
his question, for he continued a lively conversation that he was having
with Boniface.
“I tell you, Bonny, that you shan’t take all the credit from our police
force. It’s all very well for those New York men to crow. They weren’t
in it.”
“They were, Tom,” replied Bonny, indignantly.
The Judge stared. Boniface Gravely was a young elegant who prided
himself on his good manners. What dispute had he come here in his study
to settle? He never had seen him out of temper before. Now he was red
and flushed, and looked as if he could strike his brother-in-law.
The Judge caught other phrases from other excited ones. “The
police—cab—driving fast—running away—railway station—caught them in
time.” Something startling had evidently happened.
He put out one of his long arms and drew Titus toward him. “Grandson,
what is all this about?”
“B-b-lest if I know,” said Titus, bluntly. “I never saw such a mix-up in
my life. The people are just pouring into the house, and they’re all too
excited to explain. I tried to get hold of Dallas, but he’s sparring
over there in a corner with the dirtiest little ragamuffin I ever saw.
He’s called Cracker, and I guess Dallas saw him stealing something.”
“You might keep your eyes open, Titus,” groaned the Judge. “I never had
such an irruption into my house as this before.”
“W-w-whatever it is, Bethany’s in it,” said Titus. “I hear them talking
about her.”
“Can’t you get hold of her, Titus, and take those clothes off?”
Titus looked sharply at him. His grandfather’s voice was almost
childish. These people were driving him distracted.
“Come out in the hall, grandfather,” he said, taking him by the arm,
“the air is cooler.”
“Law me,” he groaned, when they reached the hall window, “look at the
carriages dashing down the avenue. The Brown-Gardners’ and the
Darley-Jameses’, and the Rector’s—”
“Titus,” called a sudden voice, “there’s a deputation from your school
coming. They’ve just telephoned. Can you go down and receive them?”
“No, I can’t,” growled Titus, “I’m going to stay with grandfather. Go
yourself.”
Dallas raised himself on tiptoe and stared across some heads at them.
“Anything I can do for the Judge?” he asked, calling a halt in his
excitement.
“No,” responded Titus, “go on. I’ll stay with him.”
“A telephone message for Mr. Tom Everest,” called a piercing voice. “His
father wants him on business at the iron works.”
The Judge straightened his tall form and looked in through the open door
of his study. A strange young man sat at his telephone desk. He was
receiving and giving messages, as if the house belonged to him.
“The Mayor to see the Judge, the Mayor, the Mayor,” reiterated a number
of voices, and a passage was made between the people, who by this time
crowded the staircase and the upper hall.
Titus guided his grandfather to the big hall window and threw it wide
open.
Mr. Jimson, the Mayor, was a medium-sized, bluff, hearty man, for whom
the Judge had great respect. He was a man who made no pretensions to
elegance, but the Judge admired him for his honesty. This was his second
term as mayor. During the first one he had threatened to resign on
account of corruption in civic affairs. He had been urged to remain in
office by all the best citizens of the town, and owing to their efforts
many reforms had been effected.
Just now he was beaming on the Judge.
“Congratulations!” he said, extending a hand and heartily shaking the
Judge’s. “I’m glad you caught those fellows.”
“Thank you,” said the Judge, simply. He possessed a certain kind of
pride that would not allow him to seek information from the chief
official of the city, even though he seemed the only one capable of
giving it.
“Just look at the people swarming down the avenue,” continued the Mayor.
“I wish the people of Riverport held me in such estimation. This your
grandson? How do you do, young sir? I’m pleased to meet you,” and he
shook hands with Titus.
Titus was as proud as his grandfather, so he, too, did not seek
enlightenment.
Suddenly Mrs. Everest stood at the Judge’s side. He did not know how she
got there.
“Worked my shoulders through the press,” she said, gayly; “there’s an
art in it. You turn one blade, then the other, and they cut the crowd.
Dear Judge, the house is packed—not another one can get in. They’re
lining up on the sidewalk and the middle of the street. Just see. You
can’t shake hands with all. You’ll have to make a speech.”
As if her thought had communicated itself to the crowd, or, rather,
perhaps, that the people on the street had caught sight of the Judge’s
white head, there arose a sudden cry, “Speech! Speech!”
The Judge looked helplessly about him.
The jam on the staircase, in the hall, and in the study took up the cry,
“Speech! Speech!”
The Judge, brought to bay, turned rebukingly to Mrs. Everest. “Speech!
Speech! but what shall I speechify about?”
“Why, about this trouble—about your loss and—”
“Speak louder, I beg,” exclaimed the Judge, putting his hand behind his
ear and bending down to catch her words. “There is such a roaring that I
can’t hear.”
She put up her lips, and in a clear, flutelike voice called out to him,
“Exhort them to love their homes and families, to keep them pure, to
protect their children. I think you’ll do best on general lines. Don’t
make personal references.”
The Judge set his face. “I see,” he said, firmly, “that is some kind of
a complimentary demonstration, but I am not the kind of man to talk
about a thing I do not understand. Tell me in a few words what all this
means.”
Berty stared at him in amazement. “Has no one told you?” she
vociferated.
He shook his head. “No one.”
“Kidnapers tried to steal Bethany,” she cried. “We rescued her. The
people are glad.”
The Judge understood. “Thank you,” he said, gravely. Then he faced the
crowd in the street.
It was not a cold day, and the really soft spring wind blew aside his
white hair as he looked from the window at his assembled and assembling
citizens, for others were yet arriving.
For just one instant he faltered. He was not a public speaker, and he
had never addressed a crowd like this. He might have failed, or he might
have made a lame and halting speech, if it had not been for the presence
of a hand somewhat smaller than his own.
Titus was standing by him, his own dear grandson was watching him
anxiously. The Judge thought of him and of the other children of his
family. He would speak so that they might be proud of him, and his voice
rang out on the clear noonday air: “My dear fellow citizens, I thank you
for this grand sympathetic gathering. In trouble or in joy, the
inhabitants of a city should stand together. Stand by each other, and
stand by your families. We read in Holy Writ that God setteth the
solitary in families; also that ye shall not afflict any widow or
fatherless child. Now, a fatherless child has been afflicted. Wicked men
attempted to lay hands upon her, but they were defeated.”
A burst of applause interrupted the Judge, and with his blood tingling
in his veins he went on with the delivery of the best twenty-minute
impromptu speech that had ever been given in Riverport, so the
newspapers said next day.
The speech was not concluded with as much dignity as it had been begun.
It certainly had a more affecting conclusion than beginning. The Judge
was just about to close. He was about to thank his friends and
acquaintances and well wishers for the honor they had done him, when out
of the profound silence about him there arose a little cry—a child’s
cry.
Bethany, happy at first in her play at riding a horse, had soon become
alarmed by the continued influx of strangers. Some kind-hearted persons
had taken it upon themselves to comfort her, and for a time had
succeeded.
The child, however, wanted Daddy Grandpa, and refused to be consoled for
his absence. She did not care if he were making a speech, and her
wailing cry grew louder and louder, until at last some one had the happy
thought of passing her out to the Judge. She was lifted along from one
set of strong arms to another, until at last her little feet were on the
window sill beside the Judge, and her arms were about his neck.
The close-cropped head was laid across his mouth. He could not utter a
word. The crowd understood the little affectionate, frightened, childish
embrace, and a tremendous cheering and clapping broke out.
The Judge fell back from the window, and the Mayor stepped forward.
“Three cheers for the Judge,” he said, waving his hat in the air, “and
then three cheers for the children of Riverport.”
The cheers were given with a will, and then the crowd began to disperse.
Titus slipped up to Mrs. Everest. “Look here, Mrs. Berty, send all these
folks out of the house. I can’t, as I’m under my own roof. It’s too much
for grandfather.”
“Very well,” she said, nodding her black head. “I’ll just let a few
stay.”
“Don’t you let anyone stay,” the boy said, obstinately, “but yourself.
Grandfather will want you to explain this affair to him.”
“Not my brother and the Mayor?” she said, wistfully.
“No brothers and no mayors,” said the boy. “Excuse me for seeming rude,
but grandfather looks pale. He wasn’t well yesterday.”
Mrs. Everest ran up to the Mayor and whispered to him.
He was a man of businesslike methods, and in ten minutes there wasn’t a
person in the house outside the family, except Mrs. Tom Everest, though
a few groups still loitered on the sidewalk.
She went into the study with the Judge and Bethany, and Titus ran
downstairs to tell Higby to let no one come upstairs without permission.
Titus could not find Higby at first. After a time he discovered him
behind the door in the pantry, crying in a low and dispirited way.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked.
Higby raised a tearful face.
“Mi-mi-missis Blodgett slapped me.”
“And what did she slap you for? I’ll bet you deserved it.”
“I-I-I’m a bachelor,” whimpered Higby, “a-a-an’ she’s a widder.”
“Well, suppose you are, and suppose she is,” said the boy, impatiently,
“what of it? She wouldn’t slap you for that?”
“When I-I-I saw the crowd I thought she m-m-might be scared, an’ I put
m-m-my arm round her.”
“Scared! You goose, you’d scare quicker than she would.”
“An’ she sl-sl-slapped me,” continued Higby, dolefully, “an’ she said,
You sas-sas-sassy ole dog. An’ I-I-I aint a dog.”
“More’s the pity,” said Titus, unfeelingly. “You’d have more sense if
you were. Now, listen to me. Grandfather wants to keep quiet. If anyone
comes to see him put him or her in the parlor and come for me. If you
let anyone upstairs without orders from us I’ll give you a slap compared
with which Mrs. Blodgett’s would be a caress. Do you understand?” and he
took the old man by the shoulder and gently shook him.
Higby smiled through his tears. “B-b-bless you, Master Titus. You want
to m-m-make ole Higby laugh.”
“Do you understand?” asked the boy.
The old man nodded.
“Put your handkerchief in your pocket,” commanded Titus.
Higby did so.
“Stand up, walk out into the hall, strut a little, if you can.”
Higby, with a wan smile, tried to strut, and to such good effect that
Titus, taken with a sudden fit of laughter and choking, was obliged to
retire behind the pantry door. Presently he came out.
“Higby, repeat after me: ‘A bachelor’s life is a lively life.’”
“A-a-a ba-ba-bachelor’s life is a l-l-lovely life.”
“Lively, you goose.”
“L-l-lively life.”
“None of your widows for me.”
“None of your w-w-widders for me.”
“Now, don’t you feel better?”
“Yes, sir,” said Higby. “I’ll put me a-a-arm round the stair post afore
I-I-I’ll put it round that widder again,” and he marched valiantly up to
the aforesaid post and struck it with such vehemence and comicality that
Titus put down his head and ran precipitately upstairs.
Higby’s admiration for Mrs. Blodgett was a standing joke in the family.