Titus guided his grandfather to the big hall window and threw it wide open.
Mr. Jimson, the Mayor, was a medium-sized, bluff, hearty man, for whom the Judge had great respect. He was a man who made no pretensions to elegance, but the Judge admired him for his honesty. This was his second term as mayor. During the first one he had threatened to resign on account of corruption in civic affairs. He had been urged to remain in office by all the best citizens of the town, and owing to their efforts many reforms had been effected.
Just now he was beaming on the Judge.
“Congratulations!” he said, extending a hand and heartily shaking the Judge’s. “I’m glad you caught those fellows.”
“Thank you,” said the Judge, simply. He possessed a certain kind of pride that would not allow him to seek information from the chief official of the city, even though he seemed the only one capable of giving it.
“Just look at the people swarming down the avenue,” continued the Mayor. “I wish the people of Riverport held me in such estimation. This your grandson? How do you do, young sir? I’m pleased to meet you,” and he shook hands with Titus.
Titus was as proud as his grandfather, so he, too, did not seek enlightenment.
Suddenly Mrs. Everest stood at the Judge’s side. He did not know how she got there.
“Worked my shoulders through the press,” she said, gayly; “there’s an art in it. You turn one blade, then the other, and they cut the crowd. Dear Judge, the house is packed—not another one can get in. They’re lining up on the sidewalk and the middle of the street. Just see. You can’t shake hands with all. You’ll have to make a speech.”
As if her thought had communicated itself to the crowd, or, rather, perhaps, that the people on the street had caught sight of the Judge’s white head, there arose a sudden cry, “Speech! Speech!”