"Well, as to that, John, this game of life is strange; we bring nothing with us, so how can we lose? We take nothing away, so how can we win? We think; we plan; we stack these plans with precision, but Chance always sits at our right, waiting to cut the cards. You speak of 'justice.' It's a myth. The statue above the court-house stands first on one foot, then on the other, tired of waiting, tired of the sharp rocks of technicality, tired of the pompous farce. Why, Dale," he waved a hand toward an opposite corner, "if old Daniel Webster were here he couldn't do anything!" When an American lawyer cites that mighty shade it is conclusive, but the effect was lost on Dale. He was not a lawyer, neither had he read the "Dartmouth College Case" nor the "Reply to Hayne." In fact his relations with the "Sage of Marshfield" were so formal he believed his fame to rest chiefly on having left behind a multitude of busts. Besides, he was impatient; the Judge's peroration having lifted his head so suddenly that cigar ashes fell upon the deep rug at his feet. "You won't go again, Judge?" He leaned forward perplexed. "It's no use." "Well, mebbe you can't do anything--mebbe Dan'l Webster couldn't--but John Dale can!" Long arose, astonished. "How foolish! Reason for a moment--any presentation of this matter calls for the highest ability; it involves sifting of evidence; symmetry of arrangement; cohesiveness of method, logic of argument, persuasiveness of advocacy, subtleties of acumen, charms of eloquence--all the elements of the greatest profession among men!" Dale leaned heavily against the table, his eyes following the Judge as he walked back and forth. "Well, I've got 'em--I can't call 'em by name, but I've got the whole damned list--and I'm goin'!" Long stood at bay, his hand on the door, his face glowing with animation. "Dale, you're old enough to be my father, but you shall listen. You'd fail before a justice of the peace, and before the President of the United States--it's absurd. You'd go down there, get mad, probably be arrested and kill any hope we might have; why, you're guilty of contempt of court right now. I had a strong influence, yet I failed." The old farmer of "Lonesome Hill" would listen no more. "Then wait, John. This letter may at least save you from jail--and you haven't any money; will this do?" "It's more than I need, Judge." "No, keep it all--and keep your temper too." As the Judge stood in the doorway, watching the venerable figure disappear in the drizzling night, a young woman from the dining-room stole to his side and heard him muse: "After all, who knows? A Briton clad in skins once humbled a Roman emperor." "Is he in trouble?" she asked. "Yes, great trouble, and it isn't his fault. Fate's a poor shot. She never strikes one who is guilty without wounding two who are innocent." * * * * * Dale was an admirable volunteer and strangely resourceful; he had something more than courage.