Powell laughed, a little bitterly.
“If I’d only been prudent enough to die then, Glenn,” he went on, “I’d have been mourned as a potential judge of the Supreme Court, senator and president.”
“It’ll be three years before I can be admitted, won’t it?” asked Marley.
“Yes,” said Powell; “but that isn’t long; and it isn’t anything to be admitted.”
“Well, it takes time, anyway,” said Marley, “and then there’s the practice after that—how long will that take?”
“Well, let’s see,” said Powell, plucking reflectively at the flabby skin that hung between the points of his collar. “Let’s see.” His brows were twitching humorously. “It’s taken me about thirty years—I don’t know how much longer it’ll take.”
Powell smoked on for a few moments, and then added soberly:
“Of course, I had to fool around in politics for about twenty-five years, and save the people.”
“Do you think,” Marley said, after a moment’s silence that paid its own respect to Powell’s regrets, “that there’s an opening for me here in Macochee?”
“No, Glenn, I’ll tell you. There’s no use to think of locating in Macochee or any other small town. The business is dead here. It’s too bad, but it’s so. When I began there was plenty of real estate law to do, and plenty of criminal law, but the land titles are all settled now—”