I
Judge Hosmer’s study was on the second floor of his home. Not a
pretentious room. Calf-bound volumes on the shelves that lined the
walls; a comfortable chair under a reading light, a work table on which
books, papers, pen and ink were usually littered; and a more formal desk
where, in laborious longhand and disdaining the services of a
stenographer, the Judge wrought out his opinions. There was a homely
honesty about the room; a clean suggestion of common sense and
fundamental decency; a certain uprightness. Rooms much used do thus at
times reflect the characteristics of those who use them.
The Judge was, this evening, at the desk and writing. He used a stiff,
stub pen; and he wrote slowly, forming the large characters with care,
forming the pellucid sentences with equal care. He consulted no notes;
it was his custom to clarify the issues in any case so thoroughly in his
own thoughts that there could be no hesitation when the moment came to
set those issues down. Half a dozen sheets, already covered with his
large hand, lay at his elbow. His pen was half-way down another when a
light knock sounded upon his closed door.
The Judge finished the sentence upon which he was engaged, then lifted
his eyes and looked across the room and called:
“Come, Mary.”
His wife opened the door and stepped inside. She shut it behind her, and
crossed to her husband’s chair, and dropped her hand lightly on his
head. He lifted his own hand to smooth hers caressingly.
“Almost through?” she asked.
He nodded. “Another line or two.”
“Jim Cotterill is down-stairs,” she told him.
The Judge seemed faintly surprised. “Jim?” he repeated. And added
thoughtfully, half to himself, “Well, now.”
“He says there’s no hurry,” she explained. “Says he just dropped in for
a word or two. Just to say howdy.”
“That’s--neighborly,” her husband commented. “Course, I’ve seen him
every day, in court. But I haven’t had a chance to talk to him. To ask
him how things are, down home.”
She nodded, smiling. “Another of your scruples, Bob?”
“It wouldn’t hardly have looked right,” he agreed. “The other side were
doubtful, anyway, knowing I’d been attorney for the Furnace a few years
ago, and knowing Jim and me were townsmen.”
“I know,” she assented.
“Case is finished, now, though,” he commented. “Tell Jim I’ll be through
in fifteen or twenty minutes. You entertain him, Mary.”
She made a gesture of impatience. “He makes me uncomfortable,” she
said. “I never liked him.”
The Judge smiled. “Oh, Jim’s all right. He’s fat; and he’s a little bit
slick. But he means all right, I reckon. Give him a cigar and ask after
his folks. He’ll do the talking for both of you.”
She nodded, moving toward the door. “Yes,” she assented; and asked: “I
haven’t bothered you?”
The Judge smiled. “Lord, Honey, you never bother me.”
But when the door had closed behind her, his countenance was faintly
shadowed. Concern showed in his eyes, dwelt there. He remained for a
little time motionless, absorbed in some thought that distressed him. In
the end, there was a suggestion of effort in his movements as he picked
up his pen and began again his slow and careful writing. Bethany Iron
Furnace against John Thomas, David Jones, et al. His decision.