Chapter II (2)

Encouraged by his master’s voice, and by the feeling of the familiar hand upon his bit, the horse moved bravely on.

But the bottom was very rough and uneven. Sometimes the wheels struck a large stone, terrifying Mr. Buller, who thought they were going to upset; and sometimes they sank into soft mud, horrifying Mr. Podington, who thought they were going to drown.

Thus proceeding, they presented a strange sight. At first Mr. Podington held his hands above the water as he drove, but he soon found this awkward, and dropped them to their usual position, so that nothing was visible above the water but the head and neck of a horse and the heads and shoulders of two men.

Now the submarine equipage came to a low place in the bottom, and even Mr. Buller shuddered as the water rose to his chin. Podington gave a howl of horror, and the horse, with high, uplifted head, was obliged to swim. At this moment a boy with a gun came strolling along the road, and hearing Mr. Podington’s cry, he cast his eyes over the water. Instinctively he raised his weapon to his shoulder, and then, in an instant, perceiving that the objects he beheld were not aquatic birds, he dropped his gun and ran yelling down the road toward the mill.

But the hollow in the bottom was a narrow one, and when it was passed the depth of the water gradually decreased. The back of the horse came into view, the dashboard became visible, and the bodies and the spirits of the two men rapidly rose. Now there was vigorous splashing and tugging, and then a jet black horse, shining as if he had been newly varnished, pulled a dripping wagon containing two well-soaked men upon a shelving shore.

“Oh, I am chilled to the bones!” said Podington.

“I should think so,” replied his friend; “if you have got to be wet, it is a great deal pleasanter under the water.”

There was a field-road on this side of the pond which Podington well knew, and proceeding along this they came to the bridge and got into the main road.

“Now we must get home as fast as we can,” cried Podington, “or we shall both take cold. I wish I hadn’t lost my whip. Hi now! Get along!”

Podington was now full of life and energy, his wheels were on the hard road, and he was himself again.

When he found his head was turned toward his home, the horse set off at a great rate.

“Hi there!” cried Podington. “I am so sorry I lost my whip.”

“Whip!” said Buller, holding fast to the side of the seat; “surely you don’t want him to go any faster than this. And look here, William,” he added, “it seems to me we are much more likely to take cold in our wet clothes if we rush through the air in this way. Really, it seems to me that horse is running away.”

“Not a bit of it,” cried Podington. “He wants to get home, and he wants his dinner. Isn’t he a fine horse? Look how he steps out!”

“Steps out!” said Buller, “I think I’d like to step out myself. Don’t you think it would be wiser for me to walk home, William? That will warm me up.”

“It will take you an hour,” said his friend. “Stay where you are, and I’ll have you in a dry suit of clothes in less than fifteen minutes.”

“I tell you, William,” said Mr. Buller, as the two sat smoking after dinner, “what you ought to do; you should never go out driving without a life-preserver and a pair of oars; I always take them. It would make you feel safer.”

Mr. Buller went home the next day, because Mr. Podington’s clothes did not fit him, and his own outdoor suit was so shrunken as to be uncomfortable. Besides, there was another reason, connected with the desire of horses to reach their homes, which prompted his return. But he had not forgotten his compact with his friend, and in the course of a week he wrote to Podington, inviting him to spend some days with him. Mr. Podington was a man of honor, and in spite of his recent unfortunate water experience he would not break his word. He went to Mr. Buller’s seaside home at the time appointed.

Early on the morning after his arrival, before the family were up, Mr. Podington went out and strolled down to the edge of the bay. He went to look at Buller’s boat. He was well aware that he would be asked to take a sail, and as Buller had driven with him, it would be impossible for him to decline sailing with Buller; but he must see the boat. There was a train for his home at a quarter past seven; if he were not on the premises he could not be asked to sail. If Buller’s boat were a little, flimsy thing, he would take that train—but he would wait and see.

There was only one small boat anchored near the beach, and a man—apparently a fisherman—informed Mr. Podington that it belonged to Mr. Buller. Podington looked at it eagerly; it was not very small and not flimsy.

“Do you consider that a safe boat?” he asked the fisherman.

“Safe?” replied the man. “You could not upset her if you tried. Look at her breadth of beam! You could go anywhere in that boat! Are you thinking of buying her?”

The idea that he would think of buying a boat made Mr. Podington laugh. The information that it would be impossible to upset the little vessel had greatly cheered him, and he could laugh.

Shortly after breakfast Mr. Buller, like a nurse with a dose of medicine, came to Mr. Podington with the expected invitation to take a sail.

“Now, William,” said his host, “I understand perfectly your feeling about boats, and what I wish to prove to you is that it is a feeling without any foundation. I don’t want to shock you or make you nervous, so I am not going to take you out to-day on the bay in my boat. You are as safe on the bay as you would be on land—a little safer, perhaps, under certain circumstances, to which we will not allude—but still it is sometimes a little rough, and this, at first, might cause you some uneasiness, and so I am going to let you begin your education in the sailing line on perfectly smooth water. About three miles back of us there is a very pretty lake several miles long. It is part of the canal system which connects the town with the railroad. I have sent my boat to the town, and we can walk up there and go by the canal to the lake; it is only about three miles.”

If he had to sail at all, this kind of sailing suited Mr. Podington. A canal, a quiet lake, and a boat which could not be upset. When they reached the town the boat was in the canal, ready for them.

“Now,” said Mr. Buller, “you get in and make yourself comfortable. My idea is to hitch on to a canal-boat and be towed to the lake. The boats generally start about this time in the morning, and I will go and see about it.”

Mr. Podington, under the direction of his friend, took a seat in the stern of the sailboat, and then he remarked:

“Thomas, have you a life-preserver on board? You know I am not used to any kind of vessel, and I am clumsy. Nothing might happen to the boat, but I might trip and fall overboard, and I can’t swim.”

“All right,” said Buller; “here’s a life-preserver, and you can put it on. I want you to feel perfectly safe. Now I will go and see about the tow.”

But Mr. Buller found that the canal-boats would not start at their usual time; the loading of one of them was not finished, and he was informed that he might have to wait for an hour or more. This did not suit Mr. Buller at all, and he did not hesitate to show his annoyance.

“I tell you, sir, what you can do,” said one of the men in charge of the boats; “if you don’t want to wait till we are ready to start, we’ll let you have a boy and a horse to tow you up to the lake. That won’t cost you much, and they’ll be back before we want ’em.”

The bargain was made, and Mr. Buller joyfully returned to his boat with the intelligence that they were not to wait for the canal-boats. A long rope, with a horse attached to the other end of it, was speedily made fast to the boat, and with a boy at the head of the horse, they started up the canal.

“Now this is the kind of sailing I like,” said Mr. Podington. “If I lived near a canal I believe I would buy a boat and train my horse to tow. I could have a long pair of rope-lines and drive him myself; then when the roads were rough and bad the canal would always be smooth.”

“This is all very nice,” replied Mr. Buller, who sat by the tiller to keep the boat away from the bank, “and I am glad to see you in a boat under any circumstances. Do you know, William, that although I did not plan it, there could not have been a better way to begin your sailing education. Here we glide along, slowly and gently, with no possible thought of danger, for if the boat should suddenly spring a leak, as if it were the body of a wagon, all we would have to do would be to step on shore, and by the time you get to the end of the canal you will like this gentle motion so much that you will be perfectly ready to begin the second stage of your nautical education.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Podington. “How long did you say this canal is?”

“About three miles,” answered his friend. “Then we will go into the lock and in a few minutes we shall be on the lake.”

“So far as I am concerned,” said Mr. Podington, “I wish the canal were twelve miles long. I cannot imagine anything pleasanter than this. If I lived anywhere near a canal—a long canal, I mean, this one is too short—I’d—”

“Come, come now,” interrupted Buller. “Don’t be content to stay in the primary school just because it is easy. When we get on the lake I will show you that in a boat, with a gentle breeze, such as we are likely to have to-day, you will find the motion quite as pleasing, and ever so much more inspiriting. I should not be a bit surprised, William, if after you have been two or three times on the lake you will ask me—yes, positively ask me—to take you out on the bay!”

Mr. Podington smiled, and leaning backward, he looked up at the beautiful blue sky.

“You can’t give me anything better than this, Thomas,” said he; “but you needn’t think I am weakening; you drove with me, and I will sail with you.”

The thought came into Buller’s mind that he had done both of these things with Podington, but he did not wish to call up unpleasant memories, and said nothing.

About half a mile from the town there stood a small cottage where house-cleaning was going on, and on a fence, not far from the canal, there hung a carpet gaily adorned with stripes and spots of red and yellow.

When the drowsy tow-horse came abreast of the house, and the carpet caught his eye, he suddenly stopped and gave a start toward the canal. Then, impressed with a horror of the glaring apparition, he gathered himself up, and with a bound dashed along the tow-path. The astounded boy gave a shout, but was speedily left behind. The boat of Mr. Buller shot forward as if she had been struck by a squall.

The terrified horse sped on as if a red and yellow demon were after him. The boat bounded, and plunged, and frequently struck the grassy bank of the canal, as if it would break itself to pieces. Mr. Podington clutched the boom to keep himself from being thrown out, while Mr. Buller, both hands upon the tiller, frantically endeavored to keep the boat from the bank.

“William!” he screamed, “he is running away with us; we shall be dashed to pieces! Can’t you get forward and cast off that line?”

“What do you mean?” cried Podington, as the boom gave a great jerk as if it would break its fastenings and drag him overboard.

“I mean untie the tow-line. We’ll be smashed if you don’t! I can’t leave this tiller. Don’t try to stand up; hold on to the boom and creep forward. Steady now, or you’ll be overboard!”

Mr. Podington stumbled to the bow of the boat, his efforts greatly impeded by the big cork life-preserver tied under his arms, and the motion of the boat was so violent and erratic that he was obliged to hold on to the mast with one arm and to try to loosen the knot with the other; but there was a great strain on the rope, and he could do nothing with one hand.

“Cut it! Cut it!” cried Mr. Buller.

“I haven’t a knife,” replied Podington.

Mr. Buller was terribly frightened; his boat was cutting through the water as never vessel of her class had sped since sail-boats were invented, and bumping against the bank as if she were a billiard-ball rebounding from the edge of a table. He forgot he was in a boat; he only knew that for the first time in his life he was in a runaway. He let go the tiller. It was of no use to him.

“William,” he cried, “let us jump out the next time we are near enough to shore!”

“Don’t do that! Don’t do that!” replied Podington. “Don’t jump out in a runaway; that is the way to get hurt. Stick to your seat, my boy; he can’t keep this up much longer. He’ll lose his wind!”

Mr. Podington was greatly excited, but he was not frightened, as Buller was. He had been in a runaway before, and he could not help thinking how much better a wagon was than a boat in such a case.

“If he were hitched up shorter and I had a snaffle-bit and a stout pair of reins,” thought he, “I could soon bring him up.”

But Mr. Buller was rapidly losing his wits. The horse seemed to be going faster than ever. The boat bumped harder against the bank, and at one time Buller thought they could turn over.

Suddenly a thought struck him.

“William,” he shouted, “tip that anchor over the side! Throw it in, any way!”

Mr. Podington looked about him, and, almost under his feet, saw the anchor. He did not instantly comprehend why Buller wanted it thrown overboard, but this was not a time to ask questions. The difficulties imposed by the life-preserver, and the necessity of holding on with one hand, interfered very much with his getting at the anchor and throwing it over the side, but at last he succeeded, and just as the boat threw up her bow as if she were about to jump on shore, the anchor went out and its line shot after it. There was an irregular trembling of the boat as the anchor struggled along the bottom of the canal; then there was a great shock; the boat ran into the bank and stopped; the tow-line was tightened like a guitar-string, and the horse, jerked back with great violence, came tumbling in a heap upon the ground.

Instantly Mr. Podington was on the shore and running at the top of his speed toward the horse. The astounded animal had scarcely begun to struggle to his feet when Podington rushed upon him, pressed his head back to the ground, and sat upon it.

“Hurrah!” he cried, waving his hat above his head. “Get out, Buller; he is all right now!”

Presently Mr. Buller approached, very much shaken up.

“All right?” he said. “I don’t call a horse flat in a road with a man on his head all right; but hold him down till we get him loose from my boat. That is the thing to do. William, cast him loose from the boat before you let him up! What will he do when he gets up?”

“Oh. he’ll be quiet enough when he gets up,” said Podington. “But if you’ve got a knife you can cut his traces—-I mean that rope—but no, you needn’t. Here comes the boy. We’ll settle this business in very short order now.”

When the horse was on his feet, and all connection between the animal and the boat had been severed, Mr. Podington looked at his friend.

“Thomas,” said he, “you seem to have had a hard time of it. You have lost your hat and you look as if you had been in a wrestling-match.”

“I have,” replied the other; “I wrestled with that tiller and I wonder it didn’t throw me out.”

Now approached the boy. “Shall I hitch him on again, sir?” said he. “He’s quiet enough now.”

“No,” cried Mr. Buller; “I want no more sailing after a horse, and, besides, we can’t go on the lake with that boat; she has been battered about so much that she must have opened a dozen seams. The best thing we can do is to walk home.”

Mr. Podington agreed with his friend that walking home was the best thing they could do. The boat was examined and found to be leaking, but not very badly, and when her mast had been unshipped and everything had been made tight and right on board, she was pulled out of the way of tow-lines and boats, and made fast until she could be sent for from the town.

Mr. Buller and Mr. Podington walked back toward the town. They had not gone very far when they met a party of boys, who, upon seeing them, burst into unseemly laughter.

“Mister,” cried one of them, “you needn’t be afraid of tumbling into the canal. Why don’t you take off your life-preserver and let that other man put it on his head?”

The two friends looked at each other and could not help joining in the laughter of the boys.

“By George! I forgot all about this,” said Podington, as he unfastened the cork jacket. “It does look a little super-timid to wear a life-preserver just because one happens to be walking by the side of a canal.”

Mr. Buller tied a handkerchief on his head, and Mr. Podington rolled up his life-preserver and carried it under his arm. Thus they reached the town, where Buller bought a hat, Podington dispensed with his bundle, and arrangements were made to bring back the boat.

“Runaway in a sailboat!” exclaimed one of the canal boatmen when he had heard about the accident. “Upon my word! That beats anything that could happen to a man!”

“No, it doesn’t,” replied Mr. Buller, quietly. “I have gone to the bottom in a foundered road-wagon.”

The man looked at him fixedly.

“Was you ever struck in the mud in a balloon?” he asked.

“Not yet,” replied Mr. Buller.

It required ten days to put Mr. Buller’s sailboat into proper condition, and for ten days Mr. Podington stayed with his friend, and enjoyed his visit very much. They strolled on the beach, they took long walks in the back country, they fished from the end of a pier, they smoked, they talked, and were happy and content.

“Thomas,” said Mr. Podington, on the last evening of his stay, “I have enjoyed myself very much since I have been down here, and now, Thomas, if I were to come down again next summer, would you mind—would you mind, not——”

“I would not mind it a bit,” replied Buller, promptly. “I’ll never so much as mention it; so you can come along without a thought of it. And since you have alluded to the subject, William,” he continued, “I’d like very much to come and see you again; you know my visit was a very short one this year. That is a beautiful country you live in. Such a variety of scenery, such an opportunity for walks and rambles! But, William, if you could only make up your mind not to——”

“Oh, that is all right!” exclaimed Podington. “I do not need to make up my mind. You come to my house and you will never so much as hear of it. Here’s my hand upon it!”

“And here’s mine!” said Mr. Buller.

And they shook hands over a new compact.

FOOTNOTES:

[22] From _Scribner’s Magazine_, August, 1897. Republished in _Afield and Afloat_, by Frank Richard Stockton; copyright, 1900, by Charles Scribner’s Sons. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.

COLONEL STARBOTTLE FOR THE PLAINTIFF[23]

By Bret Harte (1839–1902)

It had been a day of triumph for Colonel Starbottle. First, for his personality, as it would have been difficult to separate the Colonel’s achievements from his individuality; second, for his oratorical abilities as a sympathetic pleader; and third, for his functions as the leading counsel for the Eureka Ditch Company _versus_ the State of California. On his strictly legal performances in this issue I prefer not to speak; there were those who denied them, although the jury had accepted them in the face of the ruling of the half-amused, half-cynical Judge himself. For an hour they had laughed with the Colonel, wept with him, been stirred to personal indignation or patriotic exaltation by his passionate and lofty periods—what else could they do than give him their verdict? If it was alleged by some that the American eagle, Thomas Jefferson, and the Resolutions of ’98 had nothing whatever to do with the contest of a ditch company over a doubtfully worded legislative document; that wholesale abuse of the State Attorney and his political motives had not the slightest connection with the legal question raised—it was, nevertheless, generally accepted that the losing party would have been only too glad to have the Colonel on their side. And Colonel Starbottle knew this, as, perspiring, florid, and panting, he rebuttoned the lower buttons of his blue frock-coat, which had become loosed in an oratorical spasm, and readjusted his old-fashioned, spotless shirt frill above it as he strutted from the courtroom amidst the hand-shakings and acclamations of his friends.

And here an unprecedented thing occurred. The Colonel absolutely declined spirituous refreshment at the neighboring Palmetto Saloon, and declared his intention of proceeding directly to his office in the adjoining square. Nevertheless the Colonel quitted the building alone, and apparently unarmed except for his faithful gold-headed stick, which hung as usual from his forearm. The crowd gazed after him with undisguised admiration of this new evidence of his pluck. It was remembered also that a mysterious note had been handed to him at the conclusion of his speech—evidently a challenge from the State Attorney. It was quite plain that the Colonel—a practised duellist—was hastening home to answer it.

But herein they were wrong. The note was in a female hand, and simply requested the Colonel to accord an interview with the writer at the Colonel’s office as soon as he left the court. But it was an engagement that the Colonel—as devoted to the fair sex as he was to the “code”—was no less prompt in accepting. He flicked away the dust from his spotless white trousers and varnished boots with his handkerchief, and settled his black cravat under his Byron collar as he neared his office. He was surprised, however, on opening the door of his private office to find his visitor already there; he was still more startled to find her somewhat past middle age and plainly attired. But the Colonel was brought up in a school of Southern politeness, already antique in the republic, and his bow of courtesy belonged to the epoch of his shirt frill and strapped trousers. No one could have detected his disappointment in his manner, albeit his sentences were short and incomplete. But the Colonel’s colloquial speech was apt to be fragmentary incoherencies of his larger oratorical utterances.

“A thousand pardons—for—er—having kept a lady waiting—er! But—er—congratulations of friends—and—er—courtesy due to them—er—interfered with—though perhaps only heightened—by procrastination—pleasure of—ha!” And the Colonel completed his sentence with a gallant wave of his fat but white and well-kept hand.

“Yes! I came to see you along o’ that speech of yours. I was in court. When I heard you gettin’ it off on that jury, I says to myself that’s the kind o’ lawyer _I_ want. A man that’s flowery and convincin’! Just the man to take up our case.”

“Ah! It’s a matter of business, I see,” said the Colonel, inwardly relieved, but externally careless. “And—er—may I ask the nature of the case?”

“Well! it’s a breach-o’-promise suit,” said the visitor, calmly.

If the Colonel had been surprised before, he was now really startled, and with an added horror that required all his politeness to conceal. Breach-of-promise cases were his peculiar aversion. He had always held them to be a kind of litigation which could have been obviated by the prompt killing of the masculine offender—in which case he would have gladly defended the killer. But a suit for damages!—_damages!_—with the reading of love-letters before a hilarious jury and court, was against all his instincts. His chivalry was outraged; his sense of humor was small—and in the course of his career he had lost one or two important cases through an unexpected development of this quality in a jury.

The woman had evidently noticed his hesitation, but mistook its cause. “It ain’t me—but my darter.”

The Colonel recovered his politeness. “Ah! I am relieved, my dear madam! I could hardly conceive a man ignorant enough to—er—er—throw away such evident good fortune—or base enough to deceive the trustfulness of womanhood—matured and experienced only in the chivalry of our sex, ha!”

The woman smiled grimly. “Yes!—it’s my darter, Zaidee Hooker—so ye might spare some of them pretty speeches for _her_—before the jury.”

The Colonel winced slightly before this doubtful prospect, but smiled. “Ha! Yes!—certainly—the jury. But—er—my dear lady, need we go as far as that? Cannot this affair be settled—er—out of court? Could not this—er—individual—be admonished—told that he must give satisfaction—personal satisfaction—for his dastardly conduct—to —er—near relative—or even valued personal friend? The—er—arrangements necessary for that purpose I myself would undertake.”

He was quite sincere; indeed, his small black eyes shone with that fire which a pretty woman or an “affair of honor” could alone kindle. The visitor stared vacantly at him, and said, slowly:

“And what good is that goin’ to do _us_?”

“Compel him to—er—perform his promise,” said the Colonel, leaning back in his chair.

“Ketch him doin’ it!” said the woman, scornfully. “No—that ain’t wot we’re after. We must make him _pay_! Damages—and nothin’ short o’ _that_.”

The Colonel bit his lip. “I suppose,” he said, gloomily, “you have documentary evidence—written promises and protestations—er—er— love-letters, in fact?”

“No—nary a letter! Ye see, that’s jest it—and that’s where _you_ come in. You’ve got to convince that jury yourself. You’ve got to show what it is—tell the whole story your own way. Lord! to a man like you that’s nothin’.”

Startling as this admission might have been to any other lawyer, Starbottle was absolutely relieved by it. The absence of any mirth-provoking correspondence, and the appeal solely to his own powers of persuasion, actually struck his fancy. He lightly put aside the compliment with a wave of his white hand.

“Of course,” said the Colonel, confidently, “there is strongly presumptive and corroborative evidence? Perhaps you can give me—er—a brief outline of the affair?”

“Zaidee kin do that straight enough, I reckon,” said the woman; “what I want to know first is, kin you take the case?”

The Colonel did not hesitate; his curiosity was piqued. “I certainly can. I have no doubt your daughter will put me in possession of sufficient facts and details—to constitute what we call—er—a brief.”

“She kin be brief enough—or long enough—for the matter of that,” said the woman, rising. The Colonel accepted this implied witticism with a smile.

“And when may I have the pleasure of seeing her?” he asked, politely.

“Well, I reckon as soon as I can trot out and call her. She’s just outside, meanderin’ in the road—kinder shy, ye know, at first.”

She walked to the door. The astounded Colonel nevertheless gallantly accompanied her as she stepped out into the street and called, shrilly, “You Zaidee!”

A young girl here apparently detached herself from a tree and the ostentatious perusal of an old election poster, and sauntered down towards the office door. Like her mother, she was plainly dressed; unlike her, she had a pale, rather refined face, with a demure mouth and downcast eyes. This was all the Colonel saw as he bowed profoundly and led the way into his office, for she accepted his salutations without lifting her head. He helped her gallantly to a chair, on which she seated herself sideways, somewhat ceremoniously, with her eyes following the point of her parasol as she traced a pattern on the carpet. A second chair offered to the mother that lady, however, declined. “I reckon to leave you and Zaidee together to talk it out,” she said; turning to her daughter, she added, “Jest you tell him all, Zaidee,” and before the Colonel could rise again, disappeared from the room. In spite of his professional experience, Starbottle was for a moment embarrassed. The young girl, however, broke the silence without looking up.

“Adoniram K. Hotchkiss,” she began, in a monotonous voice, as if it were a recitation addressed to the public, “first began to take notice of me a year ago. Arter that—off and on——”

“One moment,” interrupted the astounded Colonel; “do you mean Hotchkiss the President of the Ditch Company?” He had recognized the name of a prominent citizen—a rigid ascetic, taciturn, middle-aged man—a deacon—and more than that, the head of the company he had just defended. It seemed inconceivable.

“That’s him,” she continued, with eyes still fixed on the parasol and without changing her monotonous tone—“off and on ever since. Most of the time at the Free-Will Baptist church—at morning service, prayer-meetings, and such. And at home—outside—er—in the road.”

“Is it this gentleman—Mr. Adoniram K. Hotchkiss—who—er—promised marriage?” stammered the Colonel.

“Yes.”

The Colonel shifted uneasily in his chair. “Most extraordinary! for—you see—my dear young lady—this becomes—a—er—most delicate affair.”

“That’s what maw said,” returned the young woman, simply, yet with the faintest smile playing around her demure lips and downcast cheek.

“I mean,” said the Colonel, with a pained yet courteous smile, “that this—er—gentleman—is in fact—er—one of my clients.”

“That’s what maw said, too, and of course your knowing him will make it all the easier for you,” said the young woman.

A slight flush crossed the Colonel’s cheek as he returned quickly and a little stiffly, “On the contrary—er—it may make it impossible for me to—er—act in this matter.”

The girl lifted her eyes. The Colonel held his breath as the long lashes were raised to his level. Even to an ordinary observer that sudden revelation of her eyes seemed to transform her face with subtle witchery. They were large, brown, and soft, yet filled with an extraordinary penetration and prescience. They were the eyes of an experienced woman of thirty fixed in the face of a child. What else the Colonel saw there Heaven only knows! He felt his inmost secrets plucked from him—his whole soul laid bare—his vanity, belligerency, gallantry—even his medieval chivalry, penetrated, and yet illuminated, in that single glance. And when the eyelids fell again, he felt that a greater part of himself had been swallowed up in them.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, hurriedly. “I mean—this matter may be arranged—er—amicably. My interest with—and as you wisely say—my—er—knowledge of my client—er—Mr. Hotchkiss—may affect—a compromise.”

“And _damages_,” said the young girl, readdressing her parasol, as if she had never looked up.

The Colonel winced. “And—er—undoubtedly _compensation_—if you do not press a fulfilment of the promise. Unless,” he said, with an attempted return to his former easy gallantry, which, however, the recollection of her eyes made difficult, “it is a question of—er—the affections?”

“Which?” said his fair client, softly.

“If you still love him?” explained the Colonel, actually blushing.

Zaidee again looked up; again taking the Colonel’s breath away with eyes that expressed not only the fullest perception of what he had _said_, but of what he thought and had not said, and with an added subtle suggestion of what he might have thought. “That’s tellin’,” she said, dropping her long lashes again. The Colonel laughed vacantly. Then feeling himself growing imbecile, he forced an equally weak gravity. “Pardon me—I understand there are no letters; may I know the way in which he formulated his declaration and promises?”

“Hymn-books,” said the girl, briefly.

“I beg your pardon,” said the mystified lawyer.

“Hymn-books—marked words in them with pencil—and passed ’em on to me,” repeated Zaidee. “Like ‘love,’ ‘dear,’ ‘precious,’ ‘sweet,’ and ‘blessed,’” she added, accenting each word with a push of her parasol on the carpet. “Sometimes a whole line outer Tate and Brady—and _Solomon’s Song_, you know, and sich.”

“I believe,” said the Colonel, loftily, “that the—er—phrases of sacred psalmody lend themselves to the language of the affections. But in regard to the distinct promise of marriage—was there—er—no _other_ expression?”

“Marriage Service in the prayer-book—lines and words outer that—all marked,” said Zaidee. The Colonel nodded naturally and approvingly. “Very good. Were others cognizant of this? Were there any witnesses?”

“Of course not,” said the girl. “Only me and him. It was generally at church-time—or prayer-meeting. Once, in passing the plate, he slipped one o’ them peppermint lozenges with the letters stamped on it ‘I love you’ for me to take.”

The Colonel coughed slightly. “And you have the lozenge?”

“I ate it,” said the girl, simply.

“Ah,” said the Colonel. After a pause he added, delicately: “But were these attentions—er—confined to—er—-sacred precincts? Did he meet you elsewhere?”

“Useter pass our house on the road,” returned the girl, dropping into her monotonous recital, “and useter signal.”

“Ah, signal?” repeated the Colonel, approvingly.

“Yes! He’d say ‘Kerrow,’ and I’d say ‘Kerree.’ Suthing like a bird, you know.”

Indeed, as she lifted her voice in imitation of the call the Colonel thought it certainly very sweet and birdlike. At least as _she_ gave it. With his remembrance of the grim deacon he had doubts as to the melodiousness of _his_ utterance. He gravely made her repeat it.

“And after that signal?” he added, suggestively.

“He’d pass on,” said the girl.

The Colonel coughed slightly, and tapped his desk with his pen-holder.

“Were there any endearments—er—caresses—er—such as taking your hand—er—clasping your waist?” he suggested, with a gallant yet respectful sweep of his white hand and bowing of his head;—“er— slight pressure of your fingers in the changes of a dance—I mean,” he corrected himself, with an apologetic cough—“in the passing of the plate?”

“No;—he was not what you’d call ’fond,’” returned the girl.

“Ah! Adoniram K. Hotchkiss was not ’fond’ in the ordinary acceptance of the word,” said the Colonel, with professional gravity.

She lifted her disturbing eyes, and again absorbed his in her own. She also said “Yes,” although her eyes in their mysterious prescience of all he was thinking disclaimed the necessity of any answer at all. He smiled vacantly. There was a long pause. On which she slowly disengaged her parasol from the carpet pattern and stood up.

“I reckon that’s about all,” she said.

“Er—yes—but one moment,” said the Colonel, vaguely. He would have liked to keep her longer, but with her strange premonition of him he felt powerless to detain her, or explain his reason for doing so. He instinctively knew she had told him all; his professional judgment told him that a more hopeless case had never come to his knowledge. Yet he was not daunted, only embarrassed. “No matter,” he said, vaguely. “Of course I shall have to consult with you again.” Her eyes again answered that she expected he would, but she added, simply, “When?”

“In the course of a day or two,” said the Colonel, quickly. “I will send you word.” She turned to go. In his eagerness to open the door for her he upset his chair, and with some confusion, that was actually youthful, he almost impeded her movements in the hall, and knocked his broad-brimmed Panama hat from his bowing hand in a final gallant sweep. Yet as her small, trim, youthful figure, with its simple Leghorn straw hat confined by a blue bow under her round chin, passed away before him, she looked more like a child than ever.

The Colonel spent that afternoon in making diplomatic inquiries. He found his youthful client was the daughter of a widow who had a small ranch on the cross-roads, near the new Free-Will Baptist church—the evident theatre of this pastoral. They led a secluded life; the girl being little known in the town, and her beauty and fascination apparently not yet being a recognized fact. The Colonel felt a pleasurable relief at this, and a general satisfaction he could not account for. His few inquiries concerning Mr. Hotchkiss only confirmed his own impressions of the alleged lover—a serious-minded, practically abstracted man—abstentive of youthful society, and the last man apparently capable of levity of the affections or serious flirtation. The Colonel was mystified—but determined of purpose—whatever that purpose might have been.

The next day he was at his office at the same hour. He was alone—as usual—the Colonel’s office really being his private lodgings, disposed in connecting rooms, a single apartment reserved for consultation. He had no clerk; his papers and briefs being taken by his faithful body-servant and ex-slave “Jim” to another firm who did his office-work since the death of Major Stryker—the Colonel’s only law partner, who fell in a duel some years previous. With a fine constancy the Colonel still retained his partner’s name on his door-plate—and, it was alleged by the superstitious, kept a certain invincibility also through the _manes_ of that lamented and somewhat feared man.

The Colonel consulted his watch, whose heavy gold case still showed the marks of a providential interference with a bullet destined for its owner, and replaced it with some difficulty and shortness of breath in his fob. At the same moment he heard a step in the passage, and the door opened to Adoniram K. Hotchkiss. The Colonel was impressed; he had a duellist’s respect for punctuality.

The man entered with a nod and the expectant, inquiring look of a busy man. As his feet crossed that sacred threshold the Colonel became all courtesy; he placed a chair for his visitor, and took his hat from his half-reluctant hand. He then opened a cupboard and brought out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

“A—er—slight refreshment, Mr. Hotchkiss,” he suggested, politely. “I never drink,” replied Hotchkiss, with the severe attitude of a total abstainer. “Ah—er—not the finest bourbon whiskey, selected by a Kentucky friend? No? Pardon me! A cigar, then—the mildest Havana.”

“I do not use tobacco nor alcohol in any form,” repeated Hotchkiss, ascetically. “I have no foolish weaknesses.”

The Colonel’s moist, beady eyes swept silently over his client’s sallow face. He leaned back comfortably in his chair, and half closing his eyes as in dreamy reminiscence, said, slowly: “Your reply, Mr. Hotchkiss, reminds me of—er—sing’lar circumstances that —er—occurred, in point of fact—at the St. Charles Hotel, New Orleans. Pinkey Hornblower—personal friend—invited Senator Doolittle to join him in social glass. Received, sing’larly enough, reply similar to yours. ‘Don’t drink nor smoke?’ said Pinkey. ‘Gad, sir, you must be mighty sweet on the ladies.’ Ha!” The Colonel paused long enough to allow the faint flush to pass from Hotchkiss’s cheek, and went on, half closing his eyes: “‘I allow no man, sir, to discuss my personal habits,’ said Doolittle, over his shirt collar. ‘Then I reckon shootin’ must be one of those habits,’ said Pinkey, coolly. Both men drove out on the Shell Road back of cemetery next morning. Pinkey put bullet at twelve paces through Doolittle’s temple. Poor Doo never spoke again. Left three wives and seven children, they say —two of ’em black.”

“I got a note from you this morning,” said Hotchkiss, with badly concealed impatience. “I suppose in reference to our case. You have taken judgment, I believe.” The Colonel, without replying, slowly filled a glass of whiskey and water. For a moment he held it dreamily before him, as if still engaged in gentle reminiscences called up by the act. Then tossing it off, he wiped his lips with a large white handkerchief, and leaning back comfortably in his chair, said, with a wave of his hand, “The interview I requested, Mr. Hotchkiss, concerns a subject—which I may say is—er—er—at present _not_ of a public or business nature—although _later_ it might become—er—er—both. It is an affair of some—er—delicacy.”

The Colonel paused, and Mr. Hotchkiss regarded him with increased impatience. The Colonel, however, continued, with unchanged deliberation: “It concerns—er—a young lady—a beautiful, high-souled creature, sir, who, apart from her personal loveliness— er—er—I may say is of one of the first families of Missouri, and— er—not—remotely connected by marriage with one of—er—er—my boyhood’s dearest friends. The latter, I grieve to say, was a pure invention of the Colonel’s—an oratorical addition to the scanty information he had obtained the previous day. The young lady,” he continued, blandly, “enjoys the further distinction of being the object of such attention from you as would make this interview— really—a confidential matter—er—er—among friends and—er—er— relations in present and future. I need not say that the lady I refer to is Miss Zaidee Juno Hooker, only daughter of Almira Ann Hooker, relict of Jefferson Brown Hooker, formerly of Boone County, Kentucky, and latterly of—er—Pike County, Missouri.”

The sallow, ascetic hue of Mr. Hotchkiss’s face had passed through a livid and then a greenish shade, and finally settled into a sullen red. “What’s all this about?” he demanded, roughly. The least touch of belligerent fire came into Starbottle’s eye, but his bland courtesy did not change. “I believe,” he said, politely, “I have made myself clear as between—er—gentlemen, though perhaps not as clear as I should to—er—er—jury.”

Mr. Hotchkiss was apparently struck with some significance in the lawyer’s reply. “I don’t know,” he said, in a lower and more cautious voice, “what you mean by what you call ‘my attentions’ to—any one—or how it concerns you. I have not exhausted half a dozen words with—the person you name—have never written her a line—nor even called at her house.” He rose with an assumption of ease, pulled down his waistcoat, buttoned his coat, and took up his hat. The Colonel did not move. “I believe I have already indicated my meaning in what I have called ‘your attentions,’” said the Colonel, blandly, “and given you my ‘concern’ for speaking as—er—er mutual friend. As to _your_ statement of your relations with Miss Hooker, I may state that it is fully corroborated by the statement of the young lady herself in this very office yesterday.”

“Then what does this impertinent nonsense mean? Why am I summoned here?” said Hotchkiss, furiously.

“Because,” said the Colonel, deliberately, “that statement is infamously—yes, damnably to your discredit, sir!”

Mr. Hotchkiss was here seized by one of those important and inconsistent rages which occasionally betray the habitually cautious and timid man. He caught up the Colonel’s stick, which was lying on the table. At the same moment the Colonel, without any apparent effort, grasped it by the handle. To Mr. Hotchkiss’s astonishment, the stick separated in two pieces, leaving the handle and about two feet of narrow glittering steel in the Colonel’s hand. The man recoiled, dropping the useless fragment. The Colonel picked it up, fitting the shining blade in it, clicked the spring, and then rising, with a face of courtesy yet of unmistakably genuine pain, and with even a slight tremor in his voice, said, gravely:

“Mr. Hotchkiss, I owe you a thousand apologies, sir, that—er— a weapon should be drawn by me—even through your own inadvertence— under the sacred protection of my roof, and upon an unarmed man. I beg your pardon, sir, and I even withdraw the expressions which provoked that inadvertence. Nor does this apology prevent you from holding me responsible—personally responsible—_elsewhere_ for an indiscretion committed in behalf of a lady—my—er—client.”

“Your client? Do you mean you have taken her case? You, the counsel for the Ditch Company?” said Mr. Hotchkiss, in trembling indignation.

“Having won _your_ case, sir,” said the Colonel, coolly, “the—er—usages of advocacy do not prevent me from espousing the cause of the weak and unprotected.”

“We shall see, sir,” said Hotchkiss, grasping the handle of the door and backing into the passage. “There are other lawyers who—”

“Permit me to see you out,” interrupted the Colonel, rising politely.

“—will be ready to resist the attacks of blackmail,” continued Hotchkiss, retreating along the passage.

“And then you will be able to repeat your remarks to me _in the street_,” continued the Colonel, bowing, as he persisted in following his visitor to the door.

But here Mr. Hotchkiss quickly slammed it behind him, and hurried away. The Colonel returned to his office, and sitting down, took a sheet of letter paper bearing the inscription “Starbottle and Stryker, Attorneys and Counsellors,” and wrote the following lines:

Hooker _versus_ Hotchkiss.

DEAR MADAM,—Having had a visit from the defendant in above, we
should be pleased to have an interview with you at 2 P.M.
to-morrow. Your obedient servants,

STARBOTTLE AND STRYKER.

This he sealed and despatched by his trusted servant Jim, and then devoted a few moments to reflection. It was the custom of the Colonel to act first, and justify the action by reason afterwards.

He knew that Hotchkiss would at once lay the matter before rival counsel. He knew that they would advise him that Miss Hooker had “no case”—that she would be nonsuited on her own evidence, and he ought not to compromise, but be ready to stand trial. He believed, however, that Hotchkiss feared that exposure, and although his own instincts had been at first against that remedy, he was now instinctively in favor of it. He remembered his own power with a jury; his vanity and his chivalry alike approved of this heroic method; he was bound by the prosaic facts—he had his own theory of the case, which no mere evidence could gainsay. In fact, Mrs. Hooker’s own words that “he was to tell the story in his own way” actually appeared to him an inspiration and a prophecy.

Perhaps there was something else, due possibly to the lady’s wonderful eyes, of which he had thought much. Yet it was not her simplicity that affected him solely; on the contrary, it was her apparent intelligent reading of the character of her recreant lover—and of his own! Of all the Colonel’s previous “light” or “serious” loves none had ever before flattered him in that way. And it was this, combined with the respect which he had held for their professional relations, that precluded his having a more familiar knowledge of his client, through serious questioning, or playful gallantry. I am not sure it was not part of the charm to have a rustic _femme incomprise_ as a client.

Nothing could exceed the respect with which he greeted her as she entered his office the next day. He even affected not to notice that she had put on her best clothes, and he made no doubt appeared as when she had first attracted the mature yet faithless attentions of Deacon Hotchkiss at church. A white virginal muslin was belted around her slim figure by a blue ribbon, and her Leghorn hat was drawn around her oval cheek by a bow of the same color. She had a Southern girl’s narrow feet, encased in white stockings and kid slippers, which were crossed primly before her as she sat in a chair, supporting her arm by her faithful parasol planted firmly on the floor. A faint odor of southernwood exhaled from her, and, oddly enough, stirred the Colonel with a far-off recollection of a pine-shaded Sunday school on a Georgia hillside and of his first love, aged ten, in a short, starched frock. Possibly it was the same recollection that revived something of the awkwardness he had felt then.

He, however, smiled vaguely and, sitting down, coughed slightly, and placed his fingertips together. “I have had an—er—interview with Mr. Hotchkiss, but—I—er—regret to say there seems to be no prospect of—er—compromise.” He paused, and to his surprise her listless “company” face lit up with an adorable smile. “Of course!—ketch him!” she said. “Was he mad when you told him?” She put her knees comfortably together and leaned forward for a reply.

For all that, wild horses could not have torn from the Colonel a word about Hotchkiss’s anger. “He expressed his intention of employing counsel—and defending a suit,” returned the Colonel, affably basking in her smile. She dragged her chair nearer his desk. “Then you’ll fight him tooth and nail?” she said eagerly; “you’ll show him up? You’ll tell the whole story your own way? You’ll give him fits?—and you’ll make him pay? Sure?” she went on, breathlessly.

“I—er—will,” said the Colonel, almost as breathlessly.

She caught his fat white hand, which was lying on the table, between her own and lifted it to her lips. He felt her soft young fingers even through the lisle-thread gloves that encased them and the warm moisture of her lips upon his skin. He felt himself flushing—but was unable to break the silence or change his position. The next moment she had scuttled back with her chair to her old position.

“I—er—certainly shall do my best,” stammered the Colonel, in an attempt to recover his dignity and composure.

“That’s enough! You’ll _do_ it,” said the girl, enthusiastically. “Lordy! Just you talk for _me_ as ye did for _his_ old Ditch Company, and you’ll fetch it—every time! Why, when you made that jury sit up the other day—when you got that off about the Merrikan flag waving equally over the rights of honest citizens banded together in peaceful commercial pursuits, as well as over the fortress of official proflig—”

“Oligarchy,” murmured the Colonel, courteously.

“Oligarchy,” repeated the girl, quickly, “my breath was just took away. I said to maw, ‘Ain’t he too sweet for anything!’ I did, honest Injin! And when you rolled it all off at the end—never missing a word—(you didn’t need to mark ’em in a lesson-book, but had ’em all ready on your tongue), and walked out—Well! I didn’t know you nor the Ditch Company from Adam, but I could have just run over and kissed you there before the whole court!”

She laughed, with her face glowing, although her strange eyes were cast down. Alack! the Colonel’s face was equally flushed, and his own beady eyes were on his desk. To any other woman he would have voiced the banal gallantry that he should now, himself, look forward to that reward, but the words never reached his lips. He laughed, coughed slightly, and when he looked up again she had fallen into the same attitude as on her first visit, with her parasol point on the floor.

“I must ask you to—er—direct your memory—to—er—another point; the breaking off of the—er—er—er—engagement. Did he—er—give any reason for it? Or show any cause?”

“No; he never said anything,” returned the girl.

“Not in his usual way?—er—no reproaches out of the hymn-book?—or the sacred writings?”

“No; he just _quit_.”

“Er—ceased his attentions,” said the Colonel, gravely. “And naturally you—er—were not conscious of any cause for his doing so.” The girl raised her wonderful eyes so suddenly and so penetratingly without reply in any other way that the Colonel could only hurriedly say: “I see! None, of course!”

At which she rose, the Colonel rising also. “We—shall begin proceedings at once. I must, however, caution you to answer no questions nor say anything about this case to any one until you are in court.”

She answered his request with another intelligent look and a nod. He accompanied her to the door. As he took her proffered hand he raised the lisle-thread fingers to his lips with old-fashioned gallantry. As if that act had condoned for his first omissions and awkwardness, he became his old-fashioned self again, buttoned his coat, pulled out his shirt frill, and strutted back to his desk.