Mr. Callender made some inaudible reply, “Money!” roared the Judge, “take your money to Stetson, and see if you win your case.”

Mr. Richter smiled at Stephen, as if in sheer happiness at this vindication of an employer who had never seemed to him to need a defence.

Stephen was greatly drawn toward this young German with the great scar on his pleasant face.  And he was itching to know about that scar.  Every day, after coming in from dinner, Richter lighted a great brown meerschaum, and read the St. Louis ‘Anzeiger’ and the ‘Westliche Post’.  Often he sang quietly to himself: 

          “Deutschlands Sohne
          Laut ertone
          Euer Vaterlandgesang. 
          Vaterland!  Du Land des Ruhmes,
          Weih’ zu deines Heiligthumes
          Hutern, uns and unser Schwert.”

There were other songs, too.  And some wonderful quality in the German’s voice gave you a thrill when you heard them, albeit you could not understand the words.  Richter never guessed how Stephen, with his eyes on his book, used to drink in those airs.  And presently he found out that they were inspired.

The day that the railroad man called, and after he and the Judge had gone out together, the ice was broken.

“You Americans from the North are a queer people, Mr. Brice,” remarked Mr. Richter, as he put on his coat.  “You do not show your feelings.  You are ashamed.  The Judge, at first I could not comprehend him—­he would scold and scold.  But one day I see that his heart is warm, and since then I love him.  Have you ever eaten a German dinner, Mr. Brice?  No?  Then you must come with me, now.”

It was raining, the streets ankle-deep in mud, and the beer-garden by the side of the restaurant to which they went was dreary and bedraggled.  But inside the place was warm and cheerful.  Inside, to all intents and purposes, it was Germany.  A most genial host crossed the room to give Mr. Richter a welcome that any man might have envied.  He was introduced to Stephen.

“We were all ‘Streber’ together, in Germany,” said Richter.

“You were all what?” asked Stephen, interested.

“Strivers, you might call it in English.  In the Vaterland those who seek for higher and better things—­for liberty, and to be rid of oppression —­are so called.  That is why we fought in ’48 and lost.  And that is why we came here, to the Republic.  Ach!  I fear I will never be the great lawyer —­but the striver, yes, always.  We must fight once more to be rid of the black monster that sucks the blood of freedom—­vampire.  Is it not so in English?”

Stephen was astonished at this outburst.

“You think it will come to war?”

“I fear,—­yes, I fear,” said the German, shaking his head.  “We fear.  We are already preparing.”

“Preparing?  You would fight, Richter?  You, a foreigner?”