"Board, hell!" said the Judge, excited. "Mary could fix up some pies and things once in a while—I haven't had a decent doughnut for a year.... Well, you can board if you want to, we won't quarrel.... And you can be making something besides your salary, if you don't mind work—"
"I don't," said Laurence, smiling, curiously touched by the old man's warmth. Somehow he felt at home now for the first time since his return, he felt some wish to stay.
The Judge pondered and rolled his quid.
"Ever run a creamery?" he asked, suddenly, with a twinkle.
Laurence shook his head.
"I was principal of a school once," he remarked.
"Well, I haven't got a school, but I've got a creamery—that is, I'm the Receiver. Owner was killed at Vicksburg, and his widow has been trying to run it—it's a big place at Elmville, about five miles from here—I need a manager for it. I tell you what, Laurence, you have a bite of dinner with me at twelve, and then we'll drive over there, I've got to go anyway, and we can talk it over on the way—"
There was a knock at the glazed door, the pale youth who occupied the outer office put his head in and announced a client. Laurence rose. The Judge escorted him out with an arm round his shoulders, and they were to meet at the tavern.
"It's only a little worse than at my house," Judge Baxter said cheerfully. "We need a good hotel here. We need a lot of things, principally some good, hustling young men—I tell you, we've missed you fellows. But the town's all right, you mustn't look down on our town, we're going ahead."
Laurence strolled across the little square, the centre of the town, and smiled at the Judge's civic fervour. He could not see any signs of enterprise or change, except that the young maple trees along the sidewalks had grown, and there were two or three new buildings. The same row of country plugs tied to wooden posts in front of the courthouse, the same row of loafers in front of the saloon. The dry-goods store had a new window with a display of shirts and neckties. There was a new Tonsorial Parlour, with a gaily painted striped pole, the cigar-store had a wooden Indian standing on the sidewalk, holding out a bunch of wooden cigars, and the Opera-house had been repainted, and had large bills outside, announcing a minstrel show. Yes, there was an ice-cream parlour, too, with a window full of confectionery. Laurence stopped to buy a cigar, and spoke to two or three people who recognized him; their greetings were friendly enough but not especially cordial. Laurence had no great fund of friendship to draw upon in his native town. He said to himself, as he walked on, that Judge Baxter was his only friend there. Should he go and see Mary this morning? It was too early to go yet—and there was a sore feeling in him about Mary. No, he would wait till he had made his expedition with the Judge and had something definite to talk to her about. Something practical, that would suit her. He smiled wryly and went on along the street. There was not much of the brass band about this home-coming, he reflected, not much of Hail, the conquering hero comes. No, he would sink into civilian life without any fuss being made over him—so would all the other fellows, the men he had marched with this last week, through the streets of Washington, Sherman's magnificent army. There had been plenty of brass band there, they had felt pretty important then—it was a shame that the Old Man hadn't been allowed to lead his army in review, but had been sent straight off to the border. Laurence had a feeling of personal affection for the Old Man, and he realized suddenly, for his companions in arms. He was going to miss them, those tough chaps, scattered now to the four winds of heaven. The best soldiers on earth—now, like him, they would have to compete empty-handed with the fat citizens who had stayed behind and been piling up money these four years.