The Crisis — Complete. Winston Churchill

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CHAPTER VI. SILAS WHIPPLE

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      The trouble with many narratives is that they tell too much. Stephen's interview with his mother was a quiet affair, and not historic. Miss Crane's boarding-house is not an interesting place, and the tempest in that teapot is better imagined than described. Out of consideration for Mr. Stephen Brice, we shall skip likewise a most affecting scene at Mr. Canter's second-hand furniture store.

      That afternoon Stephen came again to the dirty flight of steps which led to Judge Whipple's office. He paused a moment to gather courage, and then, gripping the rail, he ascended. The ascent required courage now, certainly. He halted again before the door at the top. But even as he stood there came to him, in low, rich tones, the notes of a German song. He entered And Mr. Richter rose in shirt-sleeves from his desk to greet him, all smiling.

      “Ach, my friend!” said he, “but you are late. The Judge has been awaiting you.”

      “Has he?” inquired Stephen, with ill-concealed anxiety.

      The big young German patted him on the shoulder.

      Suddenly a voice roared from out the open transom of the private office, like a cyclone through a gap.

      “Mr. Richter!”

      “Sir!”

      “Who is that?”

      “Mr. Brice, sir.”

      “Then why in thunder doesn't he come in?”

      Mr. Richter opened the private door, and in Stephen walked. The door closed again, and there he was in the dragon's dens face to face with the dragon, who was staring him through and through. The first objects that caught Stephen's attention were the grizzly gray eye brows, which seemed as so much brush to mark the fire of the deep-set battery of the eyes. And that battery, when in action, must have been truly terrible.

      The Judge was shaven, save for a shaggy fringe of gray beard around his chin, and the size of his nose was apparent even in the full face.

      Stephen felt that no part of him escaped the search of Mr. Whipple's glance. But it was no code or course of conduct that kept him silent. Nor was it fear entirely.

      “So you are Appleton Brice's son,” said the Judge, at last. His tone was not quite so gruff as it might have been.

      “Yes, sir,” said Stephen.

      “Humph!” said the Judge, with a look that scarcely expressed approval. “I guess you've been patted on the back too much by your father's friends.” He leaned back in his wooden chair. “How I used to detest people who patted boys on the back and said with a smirk, 'I know your father.' I never had a father whom people could say that about. But, sir,” cried the Judge, bringing down his fist on the litter of papers that covered his desk, “I made up my mind that one day people should know me. That was my spur. And you'll start fair here, Mr. Brice. They won't know your father here—”

      If Stephen thought the Judge brutal, he did not say so. He glanced around the little room—at the bed in the corner, in which the Judge slept, and which during the day did not escape the flood of books and papers; at the washstand, with a roll of legal cap beside the pitcher.

      “I guess you think this town pretty crude after Boston, Mr. Brice,” Mr. Whipple continued. “From time immemorial it has been the pleasant habit of old communities to be shocked at newer settlements, built by their own countrymen. Are you shocked, sir?”

      Stephen flushed. Fortunately the Judge did not give him time to answer.

      “Why didn't your mother let me know that she was coming?”

      “She didn't wish to put you to any trouble, sir.”

      “Wasn't I a good friend of your father's? Didn't I ask you to come here and go into my office?”

      “But there was a chance, Mr. Whipple—”

      “A chance of what?”

      “That you would not like me. And there is still a chance of it,” added Stephen, smiling.

      For a second it looked as if the Judge might smile, too. He rubbed his nose with a fearful violence.

      “Mr. Richter tells me you were looking for a bank,” said he, presently.

      Stephen quaked.

      “Yes, sir, I was, but—”

      But Mr. Whipple merely picked up the 'Counterfeit Bank Note Detector'.

      “Beware of Western State Currency as you would the devil,” said he. “That's one thing we don't equal the East in—yet. And so you want to become a lawyer?”

      “I intend to become a lawyer, sir.”

      “And so you shall, sir,” cried the Judge, bringing down his yellow fist upon the 'Bank Note Detector'. “I'll make you a lawyer, sir. But my methods ain't Harvard methods, sir.”

      “I am ready to do anything, Mr. Whipple.”

      The Judge merely grunted. He scratched among his papers, and produced some legal cap and a bunch of notes.

      “Go out there,” he said, “and take off your coat and copy this brief. Mr. Richter will help you to-day. And tell your mother I shall do myself the honor to call upon her this evening.”

      Stephen did as he was told, without a word. But Mr. Richter was not in the outer office when he returned to it. He tried to compose himself to write, although the recollection of each act of the morning hung like a cloud over the back of his head. Therefore the first sheet of legal cap was spoiled utterly. But Stephen had a deep sense of failure. He had gone through the ground glass door with the firm intention of making a clean breast of the ownership of Hester. Now, as he sat still, the trouble grew upon him. He started a new sheet, and ruined that: Once he got as far as his feet, and sat down again. But at length he had quieted to the extent of deciphering ten lines of Mr. Whipple's handwriting when the creak of a door shattered his nerves completely.

      He glanced up from his work to behold—none other than Colonel Comyn Carvel.

      Glancing at Mr. Richter's chair, and seeing it empty, the Colonel's eye roved about the room until it found Stephen. There it remained, and the Colonel remained in the middle of the floor, his soft hat on the back of his head, one hand planted СКАЧАТЬ