The Crisis — Complete. Winston Churchill
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“He was very frank in his letter,” sighed Mrs. Brice.
“I imagine he is always frank, to put it delicately.”
“Your father always spoke in praise of Silas Whipple, my dear. I have heard him call him one of the ablest lawyers in the country. He won a remarkable case for Appleton here, and he once said that the Judge would have sat on the Supreme Bench if he had not been pursued with such relentlessness by rascally politicians.”
“The Judge indulges in a little relentlessness now and then, himself. He is not precisely what might be termed a mild man, if what we hear is correct.”
Mrs. Brice started.
“What have you heard?” she asked.
“Well, there was a gentleman on the steamboat who said that it took more courage to enter the Judge's private office than to fight a Border Ruffian. And another, a young lawyer, who declared that he would rather face a wild cat than ask Whipple a question on the new code. And yet he said that the Judge knew more law than any man in the West. And lastly, there is a polished gentleman named Hopper here from Massachusetts who enlightened me a little more.”
Stephen paused and bit his tongue. He saw that she was distressed by these things. Heaven knows that she had borne enough trouble in the last few months.
“Come, mother,” he said gently, “you should know how to take my jokes by this time. I didn't mean it. I am sure the Judge is a good man—one of those aggressive good men who make enemies. I have but a single piece of guilt to accuse him of.”
“And what is that?” asked the widow.
“The cunning forethought which he is showing in wishing to have it said that a certain Senator and Judge Brice was trained in his office.”
“Stephen—you goose!” she said.
Her eye wandered around the room—Widow Crane's best bedroom. It was dimly lighted by an extremely ugly lamp. The hideous stuffy bed curtains and the more hideous imitation marble mantel were the two objects that held her glance. There was no change in her calm demeanor. But Stephen, who knew his mother, felt that her little elation over her arrival had ebbed, Neither would confess dejection to the other.
“I—even I—” said Stephen, tapping his chest, “have at least made the acquaintance of one prominent citizen, Mr. Eliphalet D. Hopper. According to Mr. Dickens, he is a true American gentleman, for he chews tobacco. He has been in St. Louis five years, is now assistant manager of the largest dry goods house, and still lives in one of Miss Crane's four-dollar rooms. I think we may safely say that he will be a millionaire before I am a senator.”
He paused.
“And mother?”
“Yes, dear.”
He put his hands in his pockets and walked over to the window.
“I think that it would be better if I did the same thing.”
“What do you mean, my son—”
“If I went to work—started sweeping out a store, I mean. See here, mother, you've sacrificed enough for me already. After paying father's debts, we've come out here with only a few thousand dollars, and the nine hundred I saved out of this year's Law School allowance. What shall we do when that is gone? The honorable legal profession, as my friend reminded me to-night, is not the swiftest road to millions.”
With a mother's discernment she guessed the agitation, he was striving to hide; she knew that he had been gathering courage for this moment for months. And she knew that he was renouncing thus lightly, for her sake an ambition he had had from his school days.
Widow passed her hand over her brow. It was a space before she answered him.
“My son,” she said, let us never speak of this again:
“It was your father's dearest wish that you should become a lawyer and—and his wishes are sacred God will take care of us.”
She rose and kissed him good-night.
“Remember, my dear, when you go to Judge Whipple in the morning, remember his kindness, and—.”
“And keep my temper. I shall, mother.”
A while later he stole gently back into her room again. She was on her knees by the walnut bedstead.
At nine the next manning Stephen left Miss Crane's, girded for the struggle with the redoubtable Silas Whipple. He was not afraid, but a poor young man as an applicant to a notorious dragon is not likely to be bandied with velvet, even though the animal had been a friend of his father. Dragons as a rule have had a hard rime in their youths, and believe in others having a hard time.
To a young man, who as his father's heir in Boston had been the subject of marked consideration by his elders, the situation was keenly distasteful. But it had to be gone through. So presently, after inquiry, he came to the open square where the new Court House stood, the dome of which was indicated by a mass of staging, and one wing still to be completed. Across from the building, on Market Street, and in the middle of the block, what had once been a golden hand pointed up a narrow dusty stairway.
Here was a sign, “Law office of Silas Whipple.”
Stephen climbed the stairs, and arrived at a ground glass door, on which the sign was repeated. Behind that door was the future: so he opened it fearfully, with an impulse to throw his arm above his head. But he was struck dumb on beholding, instead of a dragon, a good-natured young man who smiled a broad welcome. The reaction was as great as though one entered a dragon's den, armed to the teeth, to find a St. Bernard doing the honors.
Stephen's heart went out to this young man—after that organ had jumped back into its place. This keeper of the dragon looked the part. Even the long black coat which custom then decreed could not hide the bone and sinew under it. The young man had a broad forehead, placid Dresden-blue eyes, flaxen hair, and the German coloring. Across one of his high cheek-bones was a great jagged scar which seemed to add distinction to his appearance. That caught Stephen's eye, and held it. He wondered whether it were the result of an encounter with the Judge.
“You wish to see Mr. Whipple?” he asked, in the accents of an educated German.
“Yes,” said Stephen, “if he isn't busy.”
“He is out,” said the other, with just a suspicion of a 'd' in the word. “You know he is much occupied now, fighting election frauds. You read the papers?”
“I am a stranger here,” said Stephen.
“Ach!” exclaimed the German, “now I know you, Mr. Brice. The young one from Boston the Judge spoke of. But you did not tell him of your arrival.”
“I did not wish to bother him,” Stephen replied, smiling.
“My name is Richter—Carl Richter, sir.”
The pressure of Mr. Richter's big hands warmed Stephen as nothing else had since he had come West. He was moved to return it with a little more fervor than he usually showed. And he felt, whatever the Judge might be, that he had a powerful friend near at hand—Mr. Richter's welcome came near being an embrace.
“Sit down, Mr. Brice,” he said; “mild weather for November, eh? The Judge will be here in an hour.”
Stephen looked around him: at the dusty books on the shelves, and the still dustier books heaped on Mr. Richter's big table; at the cuspidors; at the engravings of Washington and Webster; at the window in the jog which looked out on the court-house square; and finally at another ground-glass door on which was printed:
SILAS WHIPPLE
PRIVATE
This, then, was the den—the arena in which was to take place a memorable interview. But the thought of waiting an hour for the dragon to appear was disquieting. Stephen remembered