They both were looking wistfully in at the packed assembly, when they had occasion to make room for the dignified figure of a man who now pushed his way through the throng.
"How do, Judge Henderson," said old Silas Kneebone, who knew everybody.
The newcomer nodded somewhat coldly. He nodded also, none too warmly, to another man who stood near the door—a tall man, of loose and bulky figure, with a fringe of red beard under his chin, a wide and smiling mouth, blue eyes, and a broad face which showed shrewdness and humor alike.
"How are you, Hod?" said Henderson carelessly; thus accosting the only man at the Spring Valley bar for whom really he had much respect or fear—Horace Brooks, popularly known in Spring Valley as "old Hod Brooks," perhaps the most carelessly dressed man physically and the most exactly appointed man mentally then practising before that bar. A little sign far down the narrow hall betokened that the office of Horace Brooks might thereabouts be found by any in search of counsel in the law.
"Oh, are you retained in this case, Hod?" Judge Hendenson spoke over his shoulder.
"Not at all, Judge, not at all," said the other. None the less he himself followed on into the crowded little room.
As Judge Henderson entered all eyes were turned upon him. Conscious of the fact that he honored this assemblage, he comported himself with dignity proper for a candidate. He was a man well used to success in any undertaking, and he looked his part now. The full, florid face, the broad brow, sloping back to a ridge of iron-gray hair, the full blue eyes, the loose, easy lips, the curved chin, the large, white hands, the full chest, the soft body, the reddening skin of the face—all of these offered good index to the character of William Henderson. Lawyer, judge, politician and leading citizen—he was the type of these things, the village Cæsar, and knew well enough the tribute due to Cæsar.
A few eyes turned from the adequate figure of Judge Henderson to the loose and shambling form of the man who edged in to the front of the table. Rumor had it that in the early times, twenty years or more ago, Judge Henderson had come to that city with a single law book under his arm as his sole capital in his profession. Old Hod Brooks had made his own advent in precisely similar fashion, belated much in life by reason of his having to work his way through school. Since then his life had been one steady combat, mostly arrayed against Henderson himself. Perhaps it might have been said that they two from the first were rivals for the leading place at the local bar, little as Henderson himself now cared for that. He was well intrenched, and all opponents, such as this shambling giant with the red beard and nondescript carriage, must attack in the open.
Judge Blackman coughed ominously once more. "Order in the court!" he intoned, pounding on the table in front of him.
There was a general shuffling and scraping of chairs. Those standing seated themselves so far as was possible. Judge Henderson alone stood for a time in front of the table of Justice Blackman. The afternoon was very warm, but he represented the full traditions of his profession, for he appeared in long black coat, white waistcoat, and folded collar, tied with a narrow white tie. In some way he had the appearance of always being freshly laundered. His fresh pink cheeks were smooth and clean, his hands were immaculate as his linen. One might have said that at one time in his life he had been a handsome man, a fine young man in his earlier days, and that he still was "well preserved."