He spoke laughingly. Scarborough's answer was a grave smile.
"My personal loss may save me from you," Whitney went on. "I hesitate to speak of it, but, as you can see, it is large—almost as large as the university's."
"Yes," said Scarborough absently, though his gaze was still fixed on
Whitney. "You think you can do nothing?"
"Indeed I do not!" exclaimed Whitney. "I shall begin with the assumption that you are right. And if you are, I'll have those scoundrels in court within a month."
"And then?"
The young senator's expression and tone were calm, but Whitney seemed to find covert hostility in them. "Then—justice!" he replied angrily.
Dr. Hargrave beamed benevolent confidence. "Justice!" he echoed. "Thank
God for our courts!"
"But when?" said Scarborough. As there was no answer, he went on: "In five—ten—fifteen—perhaps twenty years. The lawyers are in no hurry—a brief case means a small fee. The judges—they've got their places for life, so there's no reason why they should muss their silk gowns in undignified haste. Besides—It seems to me I've heard somewhere the phrase 'railway judges.'"
Dr. Hargrave looked gentle but strong disapproval. "You are too pessimistic, Hampden," said he.
"The senator should not let the wounds from his political fights gangrene," suggested Whitney, with good-humored raillery.