hter's big hands warmed Stephen as nothing else
had since he had come West. He was moved to return it with a little more
fervor than he usually showed. And he felt, whatever the Judge might be,
that he had a powerful friend near at hand--Mr. Richter's welcome came
near being an embrace.

"Sit down, Mr. Brice," he said; "mild weather for November, eh? The
Judge will be here in an hour."

Stephen looked around him: at the dusty books on the shelves, and the
still dustier books heaped on Mr. Richter's big table; at the cuspidors;
at the engravings of Washington and Webster; at the window in the jog
which looked out on the court-house square; and finally at another
ground-glass door on which was printed:

SILAS WHIPPLE

PRIVATE

This, then, was the den,--the arena in which was to take place a
memorable interview. But the thought of waiting an hour for the dragon
to appear was disquieting. Stephen remembered that he had something over
nine hundred dollars in his pocket (which he had saved out of his last
year's allowance at the Law School). So he asked Mr. Richter, who was
dusting off a chair, to direct him to the nearest bank.

"Why, certainly," said he; "Mr. Brinsmade's bank on Chestnut Street." He
took Stephen to the window and pointed across the square. "I am sorry I
cannot go with you," he added, "but the Judge's negro, Shadrach, is out,
and I must stay in the office. I will give you a note to Mr. Brinsmade."

"His negro!" exclaimed Stephen. "Why, I thought that Mr. Whipple was an
Abolitionist."

Mr. Richter laughed.

"The man is free," said he. "The Judge pays him wages."

Stephen thanked his new friend for the note to the bank president, and
went slowly down the stairs. To be keyed up to a battle-pitch, and then
to have the battle deferred, is a trial of flesh and spirit.

As he reached the pavement, he saw people gathering in front of the wide
entrance of the Court House opposite, and perched on the copings.
He hesitated, curious. Then he walked slowly toward the place, and
buttoning his coat, pushed through the loafers and passers-by dallying
on the outskirts of the crowd. There, in the bright November sunlight, a
sight met his eyes which turned him sick and dizzy.

Against the walls and pillars of the building, already grimy with
soot, crouched a score of miserable human beings waiting to be sold at
auction. Mr. Lynch's slave pen had been disgorged that morning. Old and