The judge dropped into his chair, but his wavering glance still searched his son's face for some sign that should tell him, not what he already knew but what he hoped might be,—that Marshall was either drunk or crazed; but he only saw there the reflection of his own terror. He buried his head in his hands and bitter age-worn sobs shook his bent shoulders. After a moment of sullen waiting for him to recover, Marshall approached and touched him on the arm.
"Father—" he whispered gently.
The judge glanced up.
"It's a lie, Marshall!"
But Marshall only stared at him until the judge again covered his face with his hands.
When he glanced up a few moments later, he found himself alone. Marshall had stolen from the room.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SHRIMPLIN TO THE RESCUE
Beyond the flats and the railroad tracks and over across the new high, iron bridge, was a low-lying region much affected by the drivers of dump-carts, whose activity was visibly attested by the cinders, the ashes, the tin cans, the staved-in barrels and the lidless boxes that everywhere met the eye.