The Crisis — Complete. Winston Churchill

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      “I don't want to go to balls all my life. I want to go to boarding-school, and learn something. Emily is going to Monticello after Christmas. Pa, will you let me?”

      Mr. Carvel winced. He put an arm around her. He, thought of his lonely widowerhood, of her whose place Virginia had taken.

      “And what shall I do?” he said, trying to smile.

      “It will only be for a little while. And Monticello isn't very far, Pa.”

      “Well, well, there is plenty of time to think it over between now and January,” he said. “And now I have a little favor to ask of you, honey.”

      “Yes?” she said.

      The Colonel took the other armchair, stretched his feet toward the blaze, and stroked his goatee. He glanced covertly at his daughter's profile. Twice he cleared hip throat.

      “Jinny?”

      “Yes, Pa” (without turning her head).

      “Jinny, I was going to speak of this young. Brice. He's a stranger here, and he comes of a good family, and—and I like him.”

      “And you wish me to invite him to my party,” finished Virginia.

      The Colonel started. “I reckon you guessed it,” he said.

      Virginia remained immovable. She did not answer at once. Then she said:

      “Do you think, in bidding against me, that he behaved, like a gentleman?”

      The Colonel blundered.

      “Lord, Virginia,” he said, “I thought you told the judge this afternoon teat it was done out of principle.”

      Virginia ignored this. But she bit her lip

      “He is like all Yankees, without one bit of consideration for a woman. He knew I wanted Hester.”

      “What makes you imagine that he thought of you at all, my dear?” asked her father, mildly, “He does not know you.”

      This time the Colonel scored certainly. The firelight saved Virginia.

      “He overheard our conversation,” she answered.

      “I reckon that he wasn't worrying much about us. And besides, he was trying to save Hester from Jennings.”

      “I thought that you said that it was to be my party, Pa,” said Virginia, irrelevantly.

      The Colonel looked thoughtful, then he began to laugh.

      “Haven't we enough Black Republican friends?” she asked.

      “So you won't have him?” said the Colonel.

      “I didn't say that I wouldn't have him,” she answered.

      The Colonel rose, and brushed the ashes from his goat.

      “By Gum!” he said. “Women beat me.”

CHAPTER X. THE LITTLE HOUSE

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      When Stephen attempted to thank Judge Whipple for going on Hester's bond, he merely said, “Tut, tut.”

      The Judge rose at six, so his man Shadrach told Stephen. He had his breakfast at the Planters' House at seven, read the Missouri Democrat, and returned by eight. Sometimes he would say good morning to Stephen and Richter, and sometimes he would not. Mr. Whipple was out a great part of the day, and he had many visitors. He was a very busy man. Like a great specialist (which he was), he would see only one person at a time. And Stephen soon discovered that his employer did not discriminate between age or sex, or importance, or condition of servitude. In short, Stephen's opinion of Judge Whipple altered very materially before the end of that first week. He saw poor women and disconsolate men go into the private room ahead of rich citizens, who seemed content to wait their turn on the hard wooden chairs against the wall of the main office. There was one incident in particular, when a well-dressed gentleman of middle age paced impatiently for two mortal hours after Shadrach had taken his card into the sanctum. When at last he had been admitted, Mr. Richter whispered to Stephen his name. It was that of a big railroad man from the East. The transom let out the true state of affairs.

      “See here, Callender,” the Judge was heard to say, “you fellows don't like me, and you wouldn't come here unless you had to. But when your road gets in a tight place, you turn up and expect to walk in ahead of my friends. No, sir, if you want to see me, you've got to wait.”

      Mr. Callender made some inaudible reply, “Money!” roared the Judge, “take your money to Stetson, and see if you win your case.”

      Mr. Richter smiled at Stephen, as if in sheer happiness at this vindication of an employer who had never seemed to him to need a defence.

      Stephen was greatly drawn toward this young German with the great scar on his pleasant face. And he was itching to know about that scar. Every day, after coming in from dinner, Richter lighted a great brown meerschaum, and read the St. Louis 'Anzeiger' and the 'Westliche Post'. Often he sang quietly to himself:

      “Deutschlands Sohne

       Laut ertone

       Euer Vaterlandgesang.

       Vaterland! Du Land des Ruhmes,

       Weih' zu deines Heiligthumes

       Hutern, uns and unser Schwert.”

      There were other songs, too. And some wonderful quality in the German's voice gave you a thrill when you heard them, albeit you could not understand the words. Richter never guessed how Stephen, with his eyes on his book, used to drink in those airs. And presently he found out that they were inspired.

      The day that the railroad man called, and after he and the Judge had gone out together, the ice was broken.

      “You Americans from the North are a queer people, Mr. Brice,” remarked Mr. Richter, as he put on his coat. “You do not show your feelings. You are ashamed. The Judge, at first I could not comprehend him—he would scold and scold. But one day I see that his heart is warm, and since then I love him. Have you ever eaten a German dinner, Mr. Brice? No? Then you must come with me, now.”

      It was raining, the streets ankle-deep in mud, and the beer-garden by the side of the restaurant to which they went was dreary and bedraggled. But inside the place was warm and cheerful. Inside, to all intents and purposes, it was Germany. A most genial host crossed the room to give Mr. Richter a welcome that any man might have envied. He was introduced to Stephen.

      “We were all 'Streber' together, in Germany,” said Richter.

      “You were all what?” asked Stephen, interested.

      “Strivers, you might call СКАЧАТЬ