Wetherell remained in the wagon while Lemuel went in to transact his business.  The judge’s house, outlined in the starlight, was a modest dwelling with a little porch and clambering vines, set back in its own garden behind a picket fence.  Presently, from the direction of the lines of light in the shutters, came the sound of voices, Lem’s deep and insistent, and another, pitched in a high nasal key, deprecatory and protesting.  There was still another, a harsh one that growled something unintelligible, and Wetherell guessed, from the fragments which he heard, that the judge before sitting down to his duty was trying to dissuade the stage driver from a step that was foolhardy.  He guessed likewise that Lem was not to be dissuaded.  At length a silence followed, then the door swung open, and three figures came down the illuminated path.

“Like to make you acquainted with Jedge Abner Parkinson, Mr. Wetherell, and Jim Irving.  Jim’s the sheriff of Truro County, and I guess the jedge don’t need any recommendation as a lawyer from me.  You won’t mind stayin’ awhile with the jedge while Jim and I go down town with the team?  You’re both literary folks.”

Wetherell followed the judge into the house.  He was sallow, tall and spare and stooping, clean-shaven, with a hooked nose and bright eyes—­the face of an able and adroit man, and he wore the long black coat of the politician-lawyer.  The room was filled with books, and from these Judge Parkinson immediately took his cue, probably through a fear that Wetherell might begin on the subject of Lemuel’s errand.  However, it instantly became plain that the judge was a true book lover, and despite the fact that Lem’s visit had disturbed him not a little, he soon grew animated in a discussion on the merits of Sir Walter Scott, paced the room, pitched his nasal voice higher and higher, covered his table with volumes of that author to illustrate his meaning.  Neither of them heard a knock, and they both stared dumfounded at the man who filled the doorway.

It was Jethro Bass!

He entered the room with characteristic unconcern, as if he had just left it on a trivial errand, and without a “How do you do?” or a “Good evening,” parted his coat tails, and sat down in the judge’s armchair.  The judge dropped the volume of Scott on the desk, and as for Wetherell, he realized for once the full meaning of the biblical expression of a man’s tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth; the gleam of one of Jethro’s brass buttons caught his eye and held it fascinated.

“Literary talk, Judge?” said Jethro.  “D-don’t mind me—­go on.”

“Thought you were at the capital,” said the judge, reclaiming some of his self-possession.

“Good many folks thought so,” answered Jethro, “g-good many folks.”

There was no conceivable answer to this, so the judge sat down with an affectation of ease.  He was a man on whom dignity lay heavily, and was not a little ruffled because Wetherell had been a witness of his discomfiture.  He leaned back in his chair, then leaned forward, stretching his neck and clearing his throat, a position in which he bore a ludicrous resemblance to a turkey gobbler.