The Angel of Lonesome Hill | Page 3

must be a day of justice!"
"Well, as to that, John, this game of life is strange; we bring nothing with us, so how can we lose? We take nothing away, so how can we win? We think; we plan; we stack these plans with precision, but Chance always sits at our right, waiting to cut the cards. You speak of 'justice.' It's a myth. The statue above the court-house stands first on one foot, then on the other, tired of waiting, tired of the sharp rocks of technicality, tired of the pompous farce. Why, Dale," he waved a hand toward an opposite corner, "if old Daniel Webster were here he couldn't do anything!"
When an American lawyer cites that mighty shade it is conclusive, but the effect was lost on Dale. He was not a lawyer, neither had he read the "Dartmouth College Case" nor the "Reply to Hayne." In fact his relations with the "Sage of Marshfield" were so formal he believed his fame to rest chiefly on having left behind a multitude of busts. Besides, he was impatient; the Judge's peroration having lifted his head so suddenly that cigar ashes fell upon the deep rug at his feet.
"You won't go again, Judge?" He leaned forward perplexed.
"It's no use."
"Well, mebbe you can't do anything--mebbe Dan'l Webster couldn't--but John Dale can!"
Long arose, astonished. "How foolish! Reason for a moment--any presentation of this matter calls for the highest ability; it involves sifting of evidence; symmetry of arrangement; cohesiveness of method, logic of argument, persuasiveness of advocacy, subtleties of acumen, charms of eloquence--all the elements of the greatest profession among men!"
Dale leaned heavily against the table, his eyes following the Judge as he walked back and forth.
"Well, I've got 'em--I can't call 'em by name, but I've got the whole damned list--and I'm goin'!"
Long stood at bay, his hand on the door, his face glowing with animation.
"Dale, you're old enough to be my father, but you shall listen. You'd fail before a justice of the peace, and before the President of the United States--it's absurd. You'd go down there, get mad, probably be arrested and kill any hope we might have; why, you're guilty of contempt of court right now. I had a strong influence, yet I failed."
The old farmer of "Lonesome Hill" would listen no more.
"Then wait, John. This letter may at least save you from jail--and you haven't any money; will this do?"
"It's more than I need, Judge."
"No, keep it all--and keep your temper too."
As the Judge stood in the doorway, watching the venerable figure disappear in the drizzling night, a young woman from the dining-room stole to his side and heard him muse: "After all, who knows? A Briton clad in skins once humbled a Roman emperor."
"Is he in trouble?" she asked.
"Yes, great trouble, and it isn't his fault. Fate's a poor shot. She never strikes one who is guilty without wounding two who are innocent."
* * * * *
Dale was an admirable volunteer and strangely resourceful; he had something more than courage.
The train did not leave for two hours. He sat in the station till the clatter of the telegraph drove him out, when he walked toward the yards with their colored lights, and through his brain raced Speculation's myriad fiends, all brandishing lanterns like those before him. When, at last, the train did start, it seemed to roll slowly, though it could suffer delay and reach the Capital by daybreak.
He read the letter of introduction several times, and wondered what kind of man the President was; he thought of what he would say--and how it would end.
At intervals a ghost would extend a long, bony hand and wring drops of blood from his heart; at such times the President was hostile--the trip very foolish--he regretted his anger at Judge Long's house; and once, had the engine been a horse, he might have turned back. At other times gleams of victory came from somewhere and yet from nowhere, and routed the gypsies from his brain, and the President stood before him, a sympathetic gentleman. Once he knew it, and through excess of spirits walked up and down the aisle, studying the sleeping passengers; for John Dale travelled in a common "day coach."
At last he yielded to fatigue, and far off on the horizon of consciousness dimly flashed the duel of his hopes and fears. Rest was impossible, and after a long time the dawn drifted between his half-closed lids; a glorious dome floated out of the sky and the porter shouted, "All out for Washington!"
The cabmen who besieged the well-dressed passengers paid scant homage to the old man, who walked uncertainly out of the smoky shed and stood for a moment in Pennsylvania Avenue--on one hand the Capitol, on the other the Treasury and White House. A great clock