and they vibrated
in the heated air of the big hall. Had he hit the little C of the top
octave, the tinkle of that also might have been heard.

"Gentlemen and ladies, we have to begin somewheres. What am I bid?"

A menacing murmur gave place to the accusing silence. Some there were
who gazed at the Rothfield with longing eyes, but who had no intention
of committing social suicide. Suddenly a voice, the rasp of which
penetrated to St. Charles Street, came out with a bid. The owner was
a seedy man with a straw-colored, drunkard's mustache. He was leaning
against the body of Mrs. Russell's barouche (seized for sale), and those
about him shrank away as from smallpox. His hundred-dollar offer was
followed by a hiss. What followed next Stephen will always remember.
When Judge Whipple drew himself up to his full six feet, that was a
warning to those that knew him. As he doubled the bid, the words came
out with the aggressive distinctness of a man who through a long life
has been used to opposition. He with the gnawed yellow mustache pushed
himself clear of the barouche, his smouldering cigar butt dropping to
the floor. But there were no hisses now.

And this is how Judge Whipple braved public opinion once more. As he
stood there, defiant, many were the conjectures as to what he could wish
to do with the piano of his old friend. Those who knew the Judge (and
there were few who did not) pictured to themselves the dingy little
apartment where he lived, and smiled. Whatever his detractors might have
said of him, no one was ever heard to avow that he had bought or sold
anything for gain.

A tremor ran through the people. Could it have been of admiration for
the fine old man who towered there glaring defiance at those about him?
"Give me a strong and consistent enemy," some great personage has said,
"rather than a lukewarm friend." Three score and five years the Judge
had lived, and now some were beginning to suspect that he had a heart.
Verily he had guarded his secret well. But it was let out to many more
that day, and they went home praising him who had once pronounced his
name with bitterness.

This is what happened. Before he of the yellow mustache could pick up
his cigar from the floor and make another bid, the Judge had cried out
a sum which was the total of Colonel Carvel's assessment. Many recall
to this day how fiercely he frowned when the applause broke forth
of itself; and when he turned to go they made a path for