“Yes, sir,” said Stephen.
“Humph!” said the Judge, with a look that scarcely expressed approval. “I guess you've been patted on the back too much by your father's friends.” He leaned back in his wooden chair. “How I used to detest people who patted boys on the back and said with a smirk, 'I know your father.' I never had a father whom people could say that about. But, sir,” cried the Judge, bringing down his fist on the litter of papers that covered his desk, “I made up my mind that one day people should know me. That was my spur. And you'll start fair here, Mr. Brice. They won't know your father here—”
If Stephen thought the Judge brutal, he did not say so. He glanced around the little room,—at the bed in the corner, in which the Judge slept, and which during the day did not escape the flood of books and papers; at the washstand, with a roll of legal cap beside the pitcher.
“I guess you think this town pretty crude after Boston, Mr. Brice,” Mr. Whipple continued. “From time immemorial it has been the pleasant habit of old communities to be shocked at newer settlements, built by their own countrymen. Are you shocked, sir?”
Stephen flushed. Fortunately the Judge did not give him time to answer.
“Why didn't your mother let me know that she was coming?”
“She didn't wish to put you to any trouble, sir.”
“Wasn't I a good friend of your father's? Didn't I ask you to come here and go into my office?”
“But there was a chance, Mr. Whipple—”
“A chance of what?”