Virginia ignored this. But she bit her lip
“He is like all Yankees, without one bit of consideration for a woman. He knew I wanted Hester.”
“What makes you imagine that he thought of you at all, my dear?” asked her father, mildly, “He does not know you.”
This time the Colonel scored certainly. The firelight saved Virginia.
“He overheard our conversation,” she answered.
“I reckon that he wasn't worrying much about us. And besides, he was trying to save Hester from Jennings.”
“I thought that you said that it was to be my party, Pa,” said Virginia, irrelevantly.
The Colonel looked thoughtful, then he began to laugh.
“Haven't we enough Black Republican friends?” she asked.
“So you won't have him?” said the Colonel.
“I didn't say that I wouldn't have him,” she answered.
The Colonel rose, and brushed the ashes from his goat.
“By Gum!” he said. “Women beat me.”
CHAPTER X. THE LITTLE HOUSE
When Stephen attempted to thank Judge Whipple for going on Hester's bond, he merely said, “Tut, tut.”
The Judge rose at six, so his man Shadrach told Stephen. He had his breakfast at the Planters' House at seven, read the Missouri Democrat, and returned by eight. Sometimes he would say good morning to Stephen and Richter, and sometimes he would not. Mr. Whipple was out a great part of the day, and he had many visitors. He was a very busy man. Like a great specialist (which he was), he would see only one person at a time. And Stephen soon discovered that his employer did not discriminate between age or sex, or importance, or condition of servitude. In short, Stephen's opinion of Judge Whipple altered very materially before the end of that first week. He saw poor women and disconsolate men go into the private room ahead of rich citizens, who seemed content to wait their turn on the hard wooden chairs against the wall of the main office. There was one incident in particular, when a well-dressed gentleman of middle age paced impatiently for two mortal hours after Shadrach had taken his card into the sanctum. When at last he had been admitted, Mr. Richter whispered to Stephen his name. It was that of a big railroad man from the East. The transom let out the true state of affairs.
“See here, Callender,” the Judge was heard to say, “you fellows don't like me, and you wouldn't come here unless you had to. But when your road gets in a tight place, you turn up and expect to walk in ahead of my friends. No, sir, if you want to see me, you've got to wait.”
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?”
“A foreigner!” cried Richter, with a flash of anger in his blue eyes that died as suddenly as it came—died into reproach. “Call me not a foreigner—we Germans will show whether or not we are foreigners when the time is ripe. This great country belongs to all the oppressed. Your ancestors founded it, and fought for it, that the descendants of mine might find a haven from tyranny. My friend, one-half of this city is German, and it is they who will save it if danger arises. You must come with me one night to South St. Louis, that you may know us. Then you will perhaps understand, Stephen. You will not think of us as foreign swill, but as patriots who love our new Vaterland even as you love it. You must come to our Turner Halls, where we are drilling against the time when the Union shall have need of us.”
“You are drilling now?” exclaimed Stephen, in still greater astonishment. The German's eloquence had made him tingle, even as had the songs.
“Prosit deine Blume!” answered Richter, smiling and holding up his glass of beer. “You will come to a 'commerce', and see.
“This is not our blessed Lichtenhainer, that we drink at Jena. One may have a pint of Lichtenhainer for less than a groschen at Jena. Aber,” he added as he rose, with a laugh that showed his strong teeth, “we Americans are rich.”
As Stephen's admiration for his employer grew, his fear of him waxed greater likewise. The Judge's methods of teaching law were certainly not Harvard's methods. For a fortnight he paid as little attention to the young man as he did to the messengers who came with notes and cooled their heels in the outer office until it became the Judge's pleasure to answer them. This was a trifle discouraging to Stephen. But he stuck to his Chitty and his Greenleaf and his Kent. It was Richter who advised him to buy Whittlesey's “Missouri Form Book,” and warned him of Mr. Whipple's hatred for the new code. Well that he did! There came a fearful hour of judgment. With the swiftness of a hawk Mr. Whipple descended out of a clear sky, and instantly the law terms began to rattle in Stephen's head like dried peas in