“But Zaanan won’t help himself,” said the old man.
“I’ll see Zaanan the minute we get to town,” promised Jim.
He kept his word. From the train he walked straight to Zaanan’s office. Dolf Springer sat on the door-step, his head hunched down between his shoulders, a very picture of disconsolation. He scarcely looked up as Jim passed him.
Zaanan, as always in his leisure moments, was reading Tiffany’s Justices’ Guide. Jim fancied that the old man’s figure was less erect than formerly, that it drooped with discouragement, with disappointment over the crumbling of the work of his life. Jim could mark on Zaanan’s face the effects of the blow he had received when it became plain his people were turning against him. To realize their ingratitude, how little they appreciated the expenditure of his life in their behalf, must have grieved the old justice sorely.
He greeted Jim with his usual brief phrase, “Howdy?”
“Judge,” said Jim, breaking impetuously into the subject of his coming, wasting no time in preliminaries, “we’ve got to get up and stir ourselves.”
“Um! What’s been happenin’ to you now? Worried ’cause you couldn’t sell your option?”
Jim was a bit startled at Zaanan’s knowledge of the failure of his errand, but brushed aside his curiosity to know how the old justice came by his information.
“It’s not myself I’m worrying about; it’s you, Judge, and Diversity. Even your friends admit you’re beaten. They say you admit it yourself. They think you’re too old to get out and fight.”
“Heard me admittin’ I was beat, Jim, eh? Heard me sayin’ any sich thing?”