The court room itself was full. In the benches outside the bar sat the jurymen and the loafers who hoped to be jurymen, or, at least, talesmen. Within the bar, the lawyers were tilting back their chairs, chewing their cigars, keeping near the huge brown spittoons. On the bench, the judge, his spectacles on, sat with the docket open before him. The bailiff, whom Garwood in imitation of the courtly way old General Bancroft had brought with him from Virginia, by way of Shawneetown, always longed to address as "Mr. Tipstaff," but never dared do so, was just finishing crying his third "Oh, yes!" as he pronounced the proclamatory "Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!" The lawyers noticed Garwood, and as the calling of the docket proceeded, got up to shake his hand, and to ask him about Washington and the great affairs of state, all of them displaying that professional relation to politics which lawyers cultivate and affect. Though most of them, be it said, seemed to confuse the good of their party with the good of the country. Those who belonged to the party then out of power, were treated as if they were aliens, with no possible right to an interest in what the people's servants were then doing at the nation's capital. Garwood was surprised, but vastly pleased, when the judge called the title of a cause which in Garwood's ears had a familiar sound. And as he was adjusting this haunting recollection, the judge, looking over his glasses and keeping a forefinger on the docket, said: "I believe you represent the plaintiff in that case, Mr. Garwood?" Garwood arose, smiling. "I was about to ask your Honor to pass that case temporarily, if the Court please." "It will go to the heel of the docket then," said the court. After that Garwood went up to the bench, and, stooping respectfully as he passed between it and the lawyers in front of it, he went around and shook the judge's hand. And then after they had whispered about each other's health a moment, the judge invited Garwood to sit beside him, which he did. He sat there while the docket was called, imagining how it would feel to be a judge, in order to compare the feeling with the feeling one has as a congressman. He half wished he were a judge instead of a congressman. He was certain he would rather be a federal judge than a congressman--that place was for life, with no elections to harass the incumbent. He began to speculate on the length of time the district judge for the Southern District of Illinois would probably live. He might get that place if he were reëlected and the judge should die. "How is Judge Pickney's health now?" he asked of Judge Bickerstaff. "Not well, I hear," whispered the court, "he's going away for the summer."