But not satisfied with the start which Fortune had thus given, the hero-worshippers set out to make Fame meet him half way.
What silly discoveries are made in the light of one small success; what senseless tributes are inspired by achievement—no matter what the agency. Blagden’s capability as a lawyer became “distinguished ability” on the tongues of hundreds of his fellow-citizens who never knew him. There were dozens of prophets who had always “marked him out,” and scores of men ready with stories and anecdotes of his prowess and skill.
Martin had watched Blagden’s career with a jealousy but little removed from positive hatred, and every word of this indiscriminate praise fretted him almost past endurance. He felt himself as able a man as his rival, he knew many lawyers more worthy of distinction and, smarting under the injustice of these sudden acclamations, he began to grow contemptuous of public esteem.
It was not long, however, before he awoke to the danger of brooding over such thoughts. The world was big enough for them both, and the mighty metropolis was a world so wide that the blotting out of any face was only the matter of a step in the crowd. This man should not spoil or embitter his life.
From the moment of that resolution Blagden disappeared from his horizon, and Martin began to view life again from his normal standpoint.
It was only when business threatened to bring him into Blagden’s Court that he experienced the old feeling of bitterness. But then it returned with a rush. One such lesson had been sufficient to warn him however, and Martin thereafter appeared before Judge Blagden by proxy only.
It was just as well, he thought, as he felt the hot blood surging through his veins, that Allison didn’t insist upon his arguing Phelps vs. Orson. It would have been impossible to address that Self-Satisfied Piece of Humanity with respect. Thank goodness he could escape by handing the papers to the Clerk!
He rose and passed along the rear of the Court Room. In the far corner sat a newspaper artist sketching the Judge and the scene about his desk. Martin glanced sharply at the man, but he was absorbed in his work and obviously not on the outlook for green-covered law papers. Nearer the front, however, sat a young fellow studying every movement behind the rail, and sometimes even rising nervously from his seat in his efforts to keep a clear view. This was undoubtedly the youth whose place depended on his vigilant watch of the Bench. What the devil was it all about? In an instant his old newspaper instinct had carried everything before it and Martin passed down the middle aisle, seating himself immediately behind the young reporter.
“Phelps vs. Orson.”