Babcock rested his head on his hand, and looked on in silence. Here was something, it seemed to him, too sacred for him to touch even with his sympathy.
“Tom,” he said, when she grew more quiet, his whole heart going out to her, “what do you want me to do?”
“I don't know that ye can do anything,” she said in a quivering voice, lifting her head, her eyes still wet. “Perhaps nobody can. But I thought maybe ye'd go wid me to Judge Bowker in the mornin'. Rowan an' all of 'em 'll be there, an' I'm no match for these lawyers. Perhaps ye'd speak to the judge for me.”
Babcock held out his hand.
“I knew ye would, an' I thank ye,” she said, drying her eyes. “Now unlock the door, an' let 'em in. They worry so. Gran'pop hasn't slep' a night since I was hurted, an' Jennie goes round cryin' all the time, sayin' they 'll be a-killin' me next.”
Then, rising to her feet, she called out in a cheery voice, as Babcock opened the door, “Come in, Jennie; come in Gran'pop. It's all over, child. Mr. Babcock's a-going wid me in the mornin'. Niver fear; we'll down 'em all yit.”
XVII. A DANIEL COME TO JUDGMENT
When Judge Bowker entered his office adjoining the village bank, Justice Rowan had already arrived. So had McGaw, Dempsey, Crimmins, Quigg, the president of the board, and one or two of the trustees. The judge had sent for McGaw and the president, and they had notified the others.
McGaw sat next to Dempsey. His extreme nervousness of a few days ago—starting almost at the sound of his own footstep—had given place to a certain air of bravado, now that everybody in the village believed the horse had kicked Tom.