Again was turned on him that serious, questioning look.
"Yes," he said after a bit. Then he thought again for a few moments and
said: "How old were you in 1875?"
"Twelve," the boy replied.
"Twelve," he repeated. "Twelve."
He turned again to his box and Edward to his.
"There doesn't seem to be anything more in this box," the boy said, "but
more papers in that suit," and he began to put the papers back.
"What do you know about that 'suit,' as you call it?" asked Mr. Beecher,
stopping in his work.
"Nothing," was the reply. "I never heard of it."
"Never heard of it?" he repeated, and he fastened that curious look upon
Edward again. It was so compelling that it held the boy. For several
moments they looked at each other. Neither spoke.
"That seems strange," he said, at last, as he renewed the search of his
box. "Never heard of it," he repeated almost to himself.
Then for fully five minutes not a word was spoken.
"But you will some day," said Mr. Beecher suddenly.
"I will what, Mr. Beecher?" asked the boy. He had forgotten the previous
remark.
Mr. Beecher looked at Edward and sighed. "Hear about it," he said.
"I don't think I understand you," was the reply.
"No, I don't think you do," he said. "I mean, you will some day hear
about that suit. And I don't know," then he hesitated, "but--but you
might as well get it straight. You say you were twelve then," he mused.
"What were you doing when you were twelve?"
"Going to school," was the reply.
"Yes, of course," said Mr. Beecher. "Well," he continued, turning on his
haunches so that his back rested against the box, "I am going to tell
you the story of that suit, and then you'll know it."
Edward said nothing, and then began the recital of a story that he was
destined to remember. It was interesting then, as Mr. Beecher
progressed; but how thrice interesting that wonderful recital was to
prove as the years rolled by and the boy realized the wonderful telling
of that of all stories by Mr. Beecher himself!
Slowly, and in that wonderfully low, mellow voice that so many knew and
loved, step by step, came the unfolding of that remarkable story. Once
or twice only did the voice halt, as when, after he had explained the
basis of the famous suit, he said:
"Those were the charges. That is what it was all about."
Then he looked at Edward and asked: "Do you know just what such charges
mean?"
"I think I do," Edward replied, and the question was asked with such
feeling, and the answer was said so mechanically, that Mr. Beecher
replied simply: "Perhaps."
"Well," he continued, "the suit was a 'long one,' as you said. For days
and weeks, yes, for months, it went on, from January to July, and those
were very full days: full of so many things that you would hardly
understand."
And then he told the boy as much of the days in court as he thought he
would understand, and how the lawyers worked and worked, in court all
day, and up half the night, preparing for the next day. "Mostly around
that little table there," he said, pointing to a white, marble-topped
table against which the boy was leaning, and which now stands in Edward
Bok's study.
"Finally the end came," he said, "after--well, months. To some it seemed
years," said Mr. Beecher, and his eyes looked tired.
"Well," he continued, "the case went to the jury: the men, you know, who
had to decide. There were twelve of them."
"Was it necessary that all twelve should think alike?" asked the boy.
"That was what was hoped, my boy," said Mr. Beecher--"that was what was
hoped," he repeated.
"Well, they did, didn't they?" Edward asked, as Mr. Beecher stopped.
"Nine did," he replied. "Yes; nine did. But three didn't. Three
thought--" Mr. Beecher stopped and did not finish the sentence. "But
nine did," he repeated. "Nine to three it stood. That was the decision,
and then the judge discharged the jury," he said.
There was naturally one question in the boyish mind to ask the man
before him--one question! Yet, instinctively, something within him made
him hesitate to ask that question. But at last his curiosity got the
better of the still, small voice of judgment.
"And, Mr. Beecher--" the boy began.
But Mr. Beecher knew! He knew what was at the end of the tongue, looked
clear into the boy's mind; and Edward can still see him lift that fine
head and look into his eyes, as he said, slowly and clearly:
"And the decision of the nine was in exact accord with the facts."
He had divined the question!
As the two rose from the floor that night Edward looked at the clock. It
was past midnight; Mr. Beecher had talked for two hours; the boy had
spoken hardly at all.
As the boy was going out, he turned to Mr. Beecher sitting thoughtfully
in his chair.
"Good night, Mr. Beecher," he said.
The Plymouth pastor pulled himself together, and with that wit that
never forsook him he looked at the clock, smiled, and answered: "Good
morning, I should say. God bless you, my boy." Then rising, he put his
arm around the boy's shoulders and walked with him to the door.