“Jupiter, Tom!” the Judge said, with something actually like elation in his voice, “it’s good to hear you. It brings old Hamlin back and gives a man sand. You’re an orator, yourself.”
“Am I?” said Tom. “No one ever called my attention to it before. If it’s true, perhaps it’ll come in useful.”
“Now, just think of me sitting here gassing,” exclaimed the Judge, “and never asking what you are here for. What’s your errand, Tom?”
“Perhaps I’m here to defraud the Government,” Tom answered, sitting down again; “or perhaps I’ve got a fair claim against it. That’s what I’ve come to Washington to find out—with the other claimant.”
“A claim!” cried the Judge. “And you’ve left the Cross-roads—and Sheba?”
“Sheba and the other claimant are in some little rooms we’ve taken out near Dupont Circle. The other claimant is the only De Willoughby left beside myself, and he is a youngster of twenty-three. He’s my brother De Courcy’s son.”
The Judge glowed with interest. He heard the whole story, and his excitement grew as he listened. The elements of the picturesque in the situation appealed to him greatly. The curiously composite mind of the American contains a strong element of the romantic. In its most mercantile forms it is attracted by the dramatic; when it hails from the wilds, it is drawn by it as a child is drawn by colour and light.
“It’s a big thing,” the Judge ejaculated at intervals. “When I see you sitting there, Tom, just as you used to sit in your chair on the store-porch, it seems as if it could hardly be you that’s talking. Why, man, it’ll mean a million!”
“If I get money enough to set the mines at work,” said Tom, “it may mean more millions than one.”
The dingy square room, with its worn carpet, its turned-up bedstead, shabby chairs, and iron stove, temporarily assumed a new aspect. That its walls should contain this fairy tale of possible wealth and power and magnificence made it seem quite soberly respectable, and that Big Tom, sitting in the second-hand looking armchair, which creaked beneath his weight, should, in matter-of-fact tones, be relating such a story, made Judge Rutherford regard him with a kind of reverent trouble.