Those privileges were not apparent to Bart, as he looked over the little mud-beleaguered town of two or three hundred inhabitants, with its two taverns, Court House, two or three churches, and half a dozen stores and shops, and the high, narrow wooden sidewalks, mere foot bridges, rising high above the quaggy, tenacious mud, that would otherwise have forbidden all communication.  The town was built on a low level plain, every part of which, to Bart’s eye, seemed a foot or two lower and more depressed than every other.

In fact, his two days and two nights wallow in the mud, from Newbury to Jefferson, had a rather depressing effect on a mind a little below par when he started; and he was inclined to depressing views.

Bart was not one to be easily beaten, or stay beaten, unless when he abandoned the field; and the battle at Jefferson was to be fought out.  Lord! how far away were Newbury and all the events of three days ago.  There was one that was not inclined to vacate, but Bart was resolute.  It was dark, and he would shut his eyes and push straight forward till light came.

This, then, was the place where Henry had lived, and which he had learned to like.  He would like it too.  He inquired the way, and soon stood in front of a one-story wooden building, painted white, lettered “Wade & Ranney, Attorneys at Law.”  The door was a little ajar and Bart pushed it open and entered a largeish, dingy, soiled room, filled with book-cases, tables and chairs, with a generally crumpled and disarranged appearance; in the rear of which was its counterpart.  A slender, white-haired, very young looking man, and another of large and heavy mould occupied the front room, while in the rear sat a third, with his feet on the table.  Bart looked around and bowing to each:  “I see Mr. Ranney is not in;” and with another glance around, “I presume Mr. Wade is not?”

“No.  Both would be in during the evening.”

“I am Bart Ridgeley,” he said.  “You may remember my brother Henry?”

“How are you, Bart?  We know you, but did not at first recognize you,” said white-hair frankly.  “My name is Case,—­this is Ransom, and there is Kennedy.  We all knew your brother and liked him.”

Bart shook hands with, and looked at, each.  Case had small but marked features—­was too light, but his eyes redeemed his face; and his features improved on acquaintance.  Ransom was twenty-seven or twenty-eight, of heavy build, dark, and with a quick, sharp eye, and jerky positive way.  Kennedy was sandy—­hair, face, eyebrows and skin, with good eyes.

“I think we shall like you, Bart,” said Case, who had examined him.

“I hope you will; it must be very pleasant to be liked,” said Bart vivaciously.  “I’ve never tried it much.”

“There is one thing I observe,” continued Case, “that won’t suit Ransom—­that way of taking off your hat when you came in.”

“Oh!” said Bart, laughing, “I’m imitative, with a tendency to improve; and shall doubtless find good models.”