This was Judge Lynn,—good-natured, frank, easy-going, improvident, in debt to everybody, and still willing to borrow. Unendowed with wisdom—and yet ignorant as a child of the fact—a man whom everybody liked simply because there was no reason why he should be hated.
He knew every resident of Meade—in fact he knew every soul in the county and for miles beyond its borders—he also, in turn, was known. He was a pioneer of Kansas—came out from Indiana when very young, and in his years of residence in the Southwest had told people of his boyhood exploits on the banks of the Wabash. According to his own story he had been a great foot-racer—in fact, had never been beaten. The only evidence, however, of such athletic feats, came from his oft-repeated—even proverbial—assertions in regard to them.
He was a fixture on the streets of Meade, and had industriously whittled every dry-goods box in front of every store. He entered into political discussions, harmlessly; and there were even those who believed that he had convictions of his own.
He was a philanthropist in the way of giving good advice. Without solicitation he told the merchant how to conduct his business in order to reap the greatest results. He told the banker, in the same generous way, in whose hands it was safe to place loans. He would walk as far as a mile to inform cattlemen when to sell their herds.
Above all, Judge Lynn posed as the consulting oracle of the farmer, and the farmer—let it be understood—generally listened while he talked. Then, too, he was a weather prophet. He frequently prophesied as to a scourge of grasshoppers,—of chinch-bugs,—of hot winds, but seldom foretold a rain, of which the farmer stood in the greatest need. His prognostications as to “dry spells” really made him his reputation. In fact, it was his own normal condition to be “dry” and it had passed into a byword that when the judge suggested a “dry spell” it meant that he was short on change and “long on thirst.” Usually, out of courtesy, the farmer, thus advised, would invite him “round the corner” to take a drink. On returning again to the street, the judge would immediately commence repeating the prophecy of a “dry spell,” while his alert eyes would search the faces of his listeners, in an eager endeavor to pick out the one who would next invite him to take a walk “round the corner.” Indeed, it may be stated as well here as later, that in drinking matters Judge Lynn, according to his own statement, was a “repeater.”
In a professional way, Lynn recognized to a very high degree his own ability. In fact, on several occasions, he had taken issues with and attempted to reverse decisions of the higher courts.
The peculiarities of his appearance were augmented by a tall silk hat. This hat the people declared he had always had, and they reverenced it for its years of service.
The younger generation, in their thoughtlessness, if not their rudeness, had nicknamed Judge Lynn the “town spinning-top.” Now, while this was an evident lack of courtesy on their part, it was nevertheless suggested by his appearance. Indeed, he did slope from the waist line up to his number six hat, and down to his number six boots, as abruptly as a top tapers. And then, too, he was always spinning yarns. The more daring boys went so far as to discuss among themselves, in caucus secrecy, the great time they could have if, by some means, they could wind a cord around the judge’s spindle-legs, and on up to his mighty waist, and then, by some device, jerk the cord and send him into revolutions. Then they said that he would actually be a spinning-top and the greatest attraction in the town.
“There’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Stanton,” repeated Judge Lynn, “plenty of fellows around here that you’re better off not to know. It’s expensive to know them.”
“Why, how is that?” inquired Hugh.