“Boss reporter of The Guardian.”
“O, I thought he was a lawyer.”
Martin spoke in a tone of disappointment.
“Nope. Too smart for that!” laughed the process-server.
“Well, I owe you a cigar, I suppose. We can’t get a Carolina Perfecto here, but I’ll see you when Court adjourns, or if not then, some other day.”
“All right, Mr. Martin, your credit’s good, I guess.”
Nevis of The Guardian? What did that dirty sheet have to do with Court orders in green covers or any other covers? What sort of boys worked for such papers nowadays? Martin had himself served an apprenticeship in the newspaper world and still felt a lively interest in the ways of Park Row. He would have a look at the cub reporter left on guard. With this purpose in view he returned to the Court Room, but the moment he entered the door the object of his quest was completely forgotten. The judge had already ascended the Bench, and His Honour was Charles Blagden, Esq.
Martin slipped into a rear seat and watched the youthful face of the man behind the desk.
There was no love lost between Martin and the Hon. Charles Blagden. They had met as lawyers and Blagden had been the victor; they had met as men to differ on every matter of opinion and taste; they had met as rivals and Martin had written a letter of congratulation which had cost him the bitterest thoughts of his life. But Fortune continued to shower gifts upon her favourite and not very long after his marriage, an appointment to a vacancy on the Supreme Court Bench made Blagden the youngest Judge in the City.
Charles Blagden was a careful lawyer and he made a capable Judge—so capable, indeed, that his political party had just nominated him as its Judicial candidate for the coming November elections.