impassioned, and contained more quotations from the “Book of Arguments.” He regretted, he said, the obvious appeals to prejudice against a railroad corporation that was honestly trying to do its duty-yes, and more than its duty.
Misjudged, misused, even though friendless, it would continue to serve the people. So noble, indeed, was the picture which Mr. Billings' eloquence raised up that his voice shook with emotion as he finished.
In the opinion of many of the spectators Austen Vane had yet to learn the art of oratory. He might with propriety have portrayed the suffering and loss of the poor farmer who was his client; he merely quoted from the doctor's testimony to the effect that Mr. Meader would never again be able to do physical labour of the sort by which he had supported himself, and ended up by calling the attention of the jury to the photographs and plans of the crossing he had obtained two days after the accident, requesting them to note the facts that the public highway, approaching through a dense forest and underbrush at an angle of thirty-three degrees, climbed the railroad embankment at that point, and a train could not be seen until the horse was actually on the track.
The jury was out five minutes after the judge's charge, and gave Mr. Zebulun Meader a verdict of six thousand dollars and costs—a popular verdict, from the evident approval with which it was received in the court room. Quiet being restored, Mr. Billings requested, somewhat vehemently, that the case be transferred on the exceptions to the Supreme Court, that the stenographer write out the evidence, and that he might have three weeks in which to prepare a draft. This was granted.
Zeb Meader, true to his nature, was self-contained throughout the congratulations he received, but his joy was nevertheless intense.
“You shook 'em up good, Austen,” he said, making his way to where his counsel stood. “I suspicioned you'd do it. But how about this here appeal?”
“Billings is merely trying to save the face of his railroad,” Austen answered, smiling. “He hasn't the least notion of allowing this case to come up again—take my word for it.”
“I guess your word's good,” said Zeb. “And I want to tell you one thing, as an old man. I've been talkin' to Putnam County folks some, and you hain't lost nothin' by this.”
“How am I to get along without the friendship of Brush Bascom?” asked Austen, soberly.
Mr. Meader, who had become used to this mild sort of humour, relaxed sufficiently to laugh.
“Brush did seem a mite disgruntled,” he remarked.
Somewhat to Austen's embarrassment, Mr. Mender's friends were pushing forward. One grizzled veteran took him by the hand and looked thoughtfully into his face.
“I've lived a good many years,” he said, “but I never heerd 'em talked up to like that. You're my candidate for governor.”
CHAPTER VI. ENTER THE LION
It is a fact, as Shakespeare has so tersely hinted, that fame sometimes comes in the line of duty. To be sure, if Austen Vane had been Timothy Smith, the Mender case might not have made quite so many ripples in the pond with which this story is concerned. Austen did what he thought was right. In the opinion of many of his father's friends whom he met from time to time he had made a good-sized stride towards ruin, and they did not hesitate to tell him so—Mr. Chipman, president of the Ripton National Bank; Mr. Greene, secretary and treasurer of the Hawkeye Paper Company, who suggested with all kindness that, however noble it may be, it doesn't pay to tilt at windmills.
“Not unless you wreck the windmill,” answered Austen. A new and very revolutionary point of view to Mr. Greene, who repeated it to Professor Brewer, urging that gentleman to take Austen in hand. But the professor burst out laughing, and put the saying into circulation.
Mr. Silas Tredway, whose list of directorships is too long to print, also undertook to remonstrate with the son of his old friend, Hilary Vane. The young lawyer heard him respectfully. The cashiers of some of these gentlemen, who were younger men, ventured to say—when out of hearing—that they admired the championship of Mr. Mender, but it would never do. To these, likewise, Austen listened good-naturedly enough, and did not attempt to contradict them. Changing the angle of the sun-dial does not affect the time of day.
It was not surprising that young Tom Gaylord, when he came back from New York and heard of Austen's victory, should have rushed to his office and congratulated him in a rough but hearty fashion. Even though Austen had won a suit against the Gaylord Lumber Company, young Tom would have congratulated him. Old Tom was a different matter. Old Tom, hobbling along under the maples, squinted at Austen and held up his stick.
“Damn you, you're a lawyer, ain't you?” cried the old man.
Austen, well used to this kind of greeting from Mr. Gaylord, replied that he didn't think himself much of one.
“Damn it, I say you are. Some day I may have use for you,” said old Tom, and walked on.
“No,” said young Tom, afterwards, in explanation of this extraordinary attitude of his father, “it isn't principle. He's had a row with the Northeastern about lumber rates, and swears he'll live till he gets even with 'em.”
If Professor Brewer (Ripton's most clear-sighted citizen) had made the statement that Hilary Vane—away down in the bottom of his heart—was secretly proud of his son, the professor would probably have lost his place on the school board, the water board, and the library committee. The way the worldly-wise professor discovered the secret was this: he had gone to Bradford to hear the case, for he had been a dear friend of Sarah Austen. Two days later Hilary Vane saw the professor on his little porch, and lingered. Mr. Brewer suspected why, led carefully up to the subject, and not being discouraged—except by numerous grunts—gave the father an account of the proceedings by no means unfavourable to the son. Some people like paregoric; the Honourable Hilary took his without undue squirming, with no visible effects to Austen.
Life in the office continued, with one or two exceptions, the even tenor of its way. Apparently, so far as the Honourable Hilary was concerned, his son had never been to Bradford. But the Honourable Brush Bascom, when he came on mysterious business to call on the chief counsel, no longer sat on Austen's table; this was true of other feudal lords and retainers: of Mr. Nat Billings, who, by the way, did not file his draft after all. Not that Mr. Billings wasn't polite, but he indulged no longer in slow winks at the expense of the honourable Railroad Commission.
Perhaps the most curious result of the Meader case to be remarked in passing, was upon Mr. Hamilton Tooting. Austen, except when he fled to the hills, was usually the last to leave the office, Mr. Tooting often the first. But one evening Mr. Tooting waited until the force had gone, and entered Austen's room with his hand outstretched.
“Put her there, Aust,” he said.
Austen put her there.
“I've been exercisin' my thinker some the last few months,” observed Mr. Tooting, seating himself on the desk.
“Aren't you afraid of nervous prostration, Ham?”
“Say,” exclaimed Mr. Tooting, with a vexed laugh, “why are you always jollying me? You ain't any older than I am.”
“I'm not as old, Ham. I don't begin to have your knowledge of the world.”
“Come off,” said Mr. Tooting, who didn't know exactly how to take this compliment. “I came in here to have a serious talk. I've been thinking it over, and I don't know but what you did right.”
“Well, Ham, if you don't know, I don't know how I am to convince you.”
“Hold on. Don't go twistin' around that way—you make me dizzy.” He lowered his voice confidentially, although there was no one within five walls of them. “I know the difference between a gold brick