"But we will win now!" The old man's hand fell with decision.
"Why do you say that?"
"Mother had another dream last night."
"But, you know, she had one a month ago," quietly protested Long.
"Yes—and it came true—we didn't do our part just right. We can't fail this time; there must be a day of justice!"
"Well, as to that, John, this game of life is strange; we bring nothing with us, so how can we lose? We take nothing away, so how can we win? We think; we plan; we stack these plans with precision, but Chance always sits at our right, waiting to cut the cards. You speak of 'justice.' It's a myth. The statue above the court-house stands first on one foot, then on the other, tired of waiting, tired of the sharp rocks of technicality, tired of the pompous farce. Why, Dale," he waved a hand toward an opposite corner, "if old Daniel Webster were here he couldn't do anything!"
When an American lawyer cites that mighty shade it is conclusive, but the effect was lost on Dale. He was not a lawyer, neither had he read the "Dartmouth College Case" nor the "Reply to Hayne." In fact his relations with the "Sage of Marshfield" were so formal he believed his fame to rest chiefly on having left behind a multitude of busts. Besides, he was impatient; the Judge's peroration having lifted his head so suddenly that cigar ashes fell upon the deep rug at his feet.
"You won't go again, Judge?" He leaned forward perplexed.
"It's no use."
"Well, mebbe you can't do anything—mebbe Dan'l Webster couldn't—but
John Dale can!"