He went into the hall and put on his coat and gloves and took his cane out of the rack. He was sixty-five years of age that winter. It was a bitter night when even younger men found it a trial to leave the comfort of the fireside. Sneed followed in silence. Indeed, his tongue was shame-bound. For a moment, he knew not what to say.
"I—I'm much o-obliged to you," he stammered as they went out into the cold wind. "I-I don't care what it costs, either."
The Judge stopped and turned toward him.
"Look here," he said. "Money does not enter into this proceeding or any motive but the will to help a neighbor. In such a matter overtime doesn't count."
They walked in silence to the corner. There Sneed pressed the Judge's hand and tried to say something, but his voice failed him.
"Have the boys at my office at ten o'clock to-morrow morning. I want to talk to them," said the kindly old Judge as he strode away in the darkness.