“I am manager, I callate.”

The Captain’s fist was heard to come down on the desk.

“You don’t manage me,” he said, “and I reckon you don’t manage the
Colonel.”

Mr. Hopper’s face was not pleasant to see as he emerged.  But at sight of Judge Whipple on the steps his suavity returned.

“The Colonel will be in any minute, sir,” said he.

But the Judge walked past him without reply, and into the office.  Captain Brent, seeing him; sprang to his feet.

“Well, well, Judge,” said he, heartily, “you fellows have done it now, sure.  I’ll say this for you, you’ve picked a smart man.”

“Better vote for him, Lige,” said the Judge, setting down.

The Captain smiled at Stephen.

“A man’s got a lot of choice this year;” said he.  “Two governments, thirty-three governments, one government patched up for a year ox two.”

“Or no government,” finished the Judge.  “Lige, you’re not such a fool as to vote against the Union?”

“Judge,” said the Captain, instantly, “I’m not the only one in this town who will have to decide whether my sympathies are wrong.  My sympathies are with the South.”

“It’s not a question of sympathy, Captain,” answered the Judge, dryly.  “Abraham Lincoln himself was born in Kentucky.”

They had not heard a step without.

“Gentlemen, mark my words.  If Abraham Lincoln is elected, the South leaves this Union.”

The Judge started, and looked up.  The speaker was Colonel Carvel himself.

“Then, sir,” Mr. Whipple cried hotly, “then you will be chastised and brought back.  For at last we have chosen a man who is strong enough, —­who does not fear your fire-eaters,—­whose electors depend on Northern votes alone.”

Stephen rose apprehensively, So did Captain Lige The Colonel had taken a step forward, and a fire was quick to kindle in his gray eyes.  It was as quick to die.  Judge Whipple, deathly pale, staggered and fell into Stephen’ arms.  But it was the Colonel who laid him on the horsehair sofa.

“Silas!” he said, “Silas!”

Nor could the two who listened sound the depth of the pathos the Colonel put into those two words.

But the Judge had not fainted.  And the brusqueness in his weakened voice was even more pathetic—­ “Tut, tut,” said he.  “A little heat, and no breakfast.”

The Colonel already had a bottle of the famous Bourbon day his hand, and Captain Lige brought a glass of muddy iced water.  Mr. Carvel made an injudicious mixture of the two, and held it to the lips of his friend.  He was pushed away.

“Come, Silas,” he said.

“No!” cried the Judge, and with this effort he slipped back again.  Those who stood there thought that the stamp of death was already on Judge Whipple’s face.

But the lips were firmly closed, bidding defiance, as ever, to the world.  The Colonel, stroking his goatee, regarded him curiously.