It was county court day, and the sheriff and the clerk of the court were sitting peaceably in armchairs on the little porch of the court-house. As Nicholas passed with a greeting, they turned from a languid discussion of the points of a brindle cow in the street to follow mentally his powerful figure.
"I reckon he's got more muscle than any man in town," remarked the sheriff in a reflective drawl. "Unless Phil Bates, the butcher, could knock him out. Like to see 'em at each other, wouldn't you?" he added with a laugh.
The clerk carefully tilted his chair back against the wall and surveyed his outstretched feet. "Like to live to see him stumping this State for Congress," he replied. "There goes the brainiest man these parts have produced since before the war—the people want their own men, and it's time they had 'em."
Nicholas passed on to Tom's office, and, finding it empty, turned back to the judge's house, where he found father and son breakfasting opposite each other at a table bright with silver and chrysanthemums.
They hospitably implored him to join them, but he shook his head, motioning away the plate which old Cæsar would have laid before him.
"I wanted to ask Tom if he had heard this—this lie about me," he said quickly.
Tom looked up, flushing warmly.
"Why, who's been such a blamed fool as to tell you?" he demanded.
"You have heard it?"
"It isn't worth hearing. I called Jerry Pollard up at once, and he swore he was all wrong—the girl herself exonerates you. Nobody believed it."