The Judge was shaven, save for a shaggy fringe of gray beard around his chin, and the size of his nose was apparent even in the full face.

Stephen felt that no part of him escaped the search of Mr. Whipple’s glance.  But it was no code or course of conduct that kept him silent.  Nor was it fear entirely.

“So you are Appleton Brice’s son,” said the Judge, at last.  His tone was not quite so gruff as it might have been.

“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?”

“That you would not like me.  And there is still a chance of it,” added Stephen, smiling.

For a second it looked as if the Judge might smile, too.  He rubbed his nose with a fearful violence.

“Mr. Richter tells me you were looking for a bank,” said he, presently.

Stephen quaked.

“Yes, sir, I was, but—­”

But Mr. Whipple merely picked up the ‘Counterfeit Bank Note Detector’.

“Beware of Western State Currency as you would the devil,” said he.  “That’s one thing we don’t equal the East in—­yet.  And so you want to become a lawyer?”

“I intend to become a lawyer, sir.”

“And so you shall, sir,” cried the Judge, bringing down his yellow fist upon the ‘Bank Note Detector’.  “I’ll make you a lawyer, sir.  But my methods ain’t Harvard methods, sir.”

“I am ready to do anything, Mr. Whipple.”

The Judge merely grunted.  He scratched among his papers, and produced some legal cap and a bunch of notes.