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 comin’. I knowed it was gwine ter happen. Er judge, you says, Mars William? Dem Yankees done made you er judge? It’s high time, sah, dey was doin’ somep’n to make up for dey rascality endurin’ de war. I boun’ dey holds a confab and says: ‘Le’s make Mars William Pemberton er judge, and dat’ll settle it.’ Does you have to go way down to dem Fillypines, Mars William, or kin you judge ’em from here?”

“I’d have to live there most of the time, of course,” said Billy.

“I wonder what de Gubnor gwine say ’bout dat,” speculated Jeff.

Billy wondered too.

After supper, when the two sat in the library, according to their habit, the Governor smoking his clay pipe and Billy his cigar, the son dutifully confessed to having been tendered the appointment.

For a long time the Governor sat, smoking, without making any comment. Billy reclined in his favourite rocker, waiting, perhaps still flushed with satisfaction over the tender that had come to him, unsolicited, in his dingy little office, above the heads of the intriguing, time-serving, clamorous multitude.

At last the Governor spoke; and, though his words were seemingly irrelevant, they were to the point. His voice had a note of martyrdom running through its senile quaver.

“My rheumatism has been growing steadily worse these past months, William.”

“I am sorry, father,” said Billy, gently.