The Angel of Lonesome Hill | Page 3

chiefly water, and what isn't water is largely rock--it's for fish and
fossils, I suppose."
"But we will win now!" The old man's hand fell with decision.
"Why do you say that?"
"Mother had another dream last night."
"But, you know, she had one a month ago," quietly protested Long.

"Yes--and it came true--we didn't do our part just right. We can't fail
this time; there 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