CHAPTER VIII A CONSULTATION WITH AN ATTORNEY
It was one thing for Morey to announce that he meant to take care of his mother’s debts. It was another thing to decide just how this promise was to be carried out. But, although Morey had climbed the dusty, narrow stairs to Major Carey’s office with nervous dread, he came down with something of assurance—as far as one could make out from the expression on the boy’s countenance. His face was red, he was perspiring, his hat was well back on his mussed-up hair and he still held, absent-mindedly, the scrap of paper on which he had been figuring.
Within the entryway at the bottom of the stairs he paused, scratched his head, took out and counted all the money he had in the world—seventy-five cents. Then he laughed.
“I only need $14,091.75 more,” he said.
For some moments he gazed out into the almost silent street. On a sudden impulse he pulled his hat down, started forward, and, reaching the sidewalk, gazed to the right and left. Midway in the next block and over the postoffice he saw a sign, in washed-out blue and pale gold: “E. L. Lomax, Attorney and Counselor At Law. Fire Insurance and Money Loaned.”
He started toward it but, passing the drug store on the corner, he entered, purchased a sheet of paper, an envelope and a stamp and on a greasy soda water counter wrote this note:
Lee’s Court House, Virginia.
Mr. Glenn Curtiss,
Hammondsport, N. Y.
Dear Sir.—My order of recent date concerning the purchase of a six-cylinder aeroplane engine is hereby countermanded. Circumstances have arisen that force me to ask you to stop shipment; to wit, I have no money to pay for the engine.
Your obedient servant,
Mortimer Marshall.
Sealing and stamping the note, Morey ordered and drank a five-cent ice cream soda as if to fortify himself, and then, dropping his letter in the postoffice, he mounted the creaking stairs to the office of E. L. Lomax. The door was open, but the place was deserted. A few law books, a typewriter, white with dust, a box of sawdust used as a spittoon, a stove crammed full of paper scraps as if already prepared for the next winter, a disarranged desk and four walls almost completely covered with insurance advertisements, and several brown and cracked maps of Rappahannock County, confronted him.
Morey turned to leave. On the door he saw a scrap of paper which seemed to have been there many days. “Gone out. Back soon,” it read. He turned, sat down and waited. An hour went by and the lawyer did not appear. Morey determined to make some inquiries. As he reached the bottom of the stairs a middle-aged man in a wide black hat and a long coat, who was sitting in the window of the postoffice, rose and greeted him.
“Did you want to see me?” the man asked.
“Are you Mr. Lomax?”
The man, who had a large quid of tobacco in his mouth, of which there were traces on his shirt front, carefully expectorated through a grating on the flag stone sidewalk and waved his hand toward the stairs, on which there were more signs of tobacco.
“Well, so long, Judge,” drawled a man who had been sitting in the same open window.
“Are you Judge Lomax?” began Morey when the two had reached the musty office above. In the vague roster of the town celebrities the name was familiar to him.
“How can I serve you?” answered the man, kicking the sawdust-filled cuspidor into the middle of the floor. “I am Judge Lomax, but I have retired from the bench.”
“My name is Marshall, Mortimer Marshall.”
“Colonel Aspley Marshall’s son?”
“Yes sir.”
“Proud to meet you, my boy. Yo’ fathah was one of my best friends. How can I serve you?”
“Do you deal in lands? Do you buy and sell property?” asked Morey directly.
“I am an attorney,” answered Judge Lomax, “but my legal business throws me more or less into such business.”
“Have you any knowledge of our place? That is, do you know anything about the value of Aspley plantation?”
“I know every foot of it. It is a fine bit of land.”
“What is it worth?”
Judge Lomax expectorated, rose and consulted one of the many land charts hanging on the wall, and then opened a worn volume on the table showing the farms of the county by section lines.
“Well, as to that,” he answered evasively, “it is hard to say—off hand. Are you desiring to sell the property?”
“I want to borrow some money on it and, later perhaps, if the price is right, we may sell it.”
Judge Lomax looked out of the window.
“I understand,” he said, after a pause, “that the entire place is mortgaged.”
“For $14,000,” answered Morey. “The Barber Bank holds the notes. They are due this fall. I want to pay them and save the place. I can’t let the land go for $14,000.”
“That’s a good deal of money,” commented the lawyer.
“But it’s nowhere near the value of the land. That’s only a little over $20 an acre for it. The land is certainly worth more than that.”
“I reckon, if you can find a buyer. But it’s pretty hard to dispose of a parcel of ground of that size.”
“How much is it worth, in your judgment, at a forced sale.”
“I, ah, well, I could hardly say, off hand.”
“How much will you lend me on it.”
The lawyer shook his head.
“Money is pretty close just now. And my clients are a little slow about lending on these old tobacco plantations. We know they are good land, but they don’t rank well as security.”
“Couldn’t you lend me $15,000 at least?” asked Morey nervously.
“I’ll look about for you and consult some of my moneyed clients.”
“When can you give me an answer?”
Judge Lomax knit his brows in thought and took a fresh chew of tobacco.
“Just you wait here a minute,” he said at last. “I’ll run out and see a party. Perhaps I can help you out.”
The lawyer hastened from his office. Ten minutes went by and he had not returned. The room was hot. Morey, in an effort to get a little fresh air moved to one of the windows. He sat down in it and looked out. At the same moment he caught sight of Judge Lomax on the steps of Barber’s Bank, in the next block. By the side of the lawyer stood the tall, heavy figure of Major Carey. Morey sprang up, looked again and then watched the two men in earnest talk for several minutes.
When the attorney came slowly into the room after another five minutes Morey knew what the verdict would be. Instinctively he had come to a quick conclusion. Judge Lomax had put him off until he could consult the enemy.
“I’m afraid,” began the lawyer, “that it’s going to be difficult to do what you want. Money is pretty tight now.”
“Then you can’t do it?” said Morey with composure.
“Not just now—later, perhaps.”
“You wouldn’t mind telling me what Major Carey instructed you to say the land was worth?” continued the boy, successfully suppressing his indignation.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. You’ve done me a low down trick. I saw you rush right over to Barber and Carey for orders. Do you get a commission from them for not dealing with me?”
“I’ll kick you downstairs.”
“Try it.”
The boy stood ready, his clear eyes fixed on the embarrassed loan agent.
“You’re not a lawyer,” sneered Morey, “you’re a shyster.”
Judge Lomax started forward, but Morey squared himself.
“Oh, I’m not afraid of you—tattle tale!” exclaimed the boy, knowing no more expressive epithet. “Come on!”
“If you weren’t a child—”
“Got your orders, did you?” taunted Morey. “You’re a fine bunch here in this town. I’ll see you all, later. And I’ll make you all feel so small you can jump through a finger ring. And mark me,” added the boy, “if you ever get yourself mixed up with this Aspley place deal I’ll come for you first.”
He turned and was about to leave the room when something prompted him to look around. The lawyer, white of face and trembling like a leaf, had lunged forward and an iron paper weight whizzed past the boy’s head striking and shattering the white frosted glass in the door. Morey dodged, stumbled, recovered himself and then, his own anger getting the better of him, he, too, sprang forward. The crazed lawyer was reaching for some object on his disordered desk. Morey could not see what it was—it might be a deadly weapon. He himself was unarmed.
Alarmed and frenzied the boy threw himself forward, leaped on the lawyer’s back, clasped him in his strong young arms just as he caught sight of a revolver and then hurled the struggling man with all his might to the floor. There was a crash as Judge Lomax’s head struck the wooden cuspidor. The revolver rolled under the table and Morey ran from the office.
It was now noon. Lee’s Court House streets were deserted. Hastening to the front of Barber’s Bank, where he had left Betty, Morey was about to mount when, to his surprise, Captain Barber and Major Carey suddenly appeared in the door of the bank. Morey was fighting mad.
“I’ve just left your friend, Judge Lomax,” exclaimed the boy impudently. “He’s on the floor of his office with a busted head. He delivered your message all right.”
“Morey,” said Major Carey sharply and sternly. “You’ve lost your senses. You’re going too far. You’re making the mistake of your life.”
“Somebody’s making a mistake—Judge Lomax did. You gentlemen have been running this town so long that you think you own it. I reckon the people here think you do. I don’t.”
Major Carey came forward across the walk with all the dignity that was commensurate with his indignation.
“Come into the bank. We want to talk to you,” he ordered with the authoritative tone of a parent.
“Are you ready to make a settlement for the rent of the corn land?”
A couple of bystanders were within earshot and the two bankers looked at each other in alarm.
“When I enter your office again, Major Carey, I’ll be ready to settle with you. I hope you’ll be ready to settle with me.”
And jumping on fat Betty’s back Morey loped down the dusty street toward Aspley place two miles away.
At home he found a note from Lieutenant Purcell with the returned fishing rod. The note said:
“My dear young friend:
“I had hoped to bring the rod in person and to have the pleasure of meeting you and your mother. I cannot thank you too much for the kind invitation you gave me and am most grateful for the use of your rod. I am forced today to proceed at once to Washington in the line of my present duty and for some weeks shall be stationed at Fort Meyer. Possibly, on my return, after a month or so, we may meet again.
“Fred Purcell.”
Morey passed a good part of the afternoon in his room. He thought, figured, walked the floor and at times went out into the yard and looked critically at things that, heretofore, he had never seen. At the evening meal his mother commented on his quietness. She attributed it to disappointment over the loss of his aeroplane motor.
“After all, Mortimer,” she said indulgingly, “I’ve been wondering today if we were not just a little hard with you. Perhaps it might be arranged.”
The boy smiled, patted his mother’s shapely hand and said:
“Don’t bother about that, mater. I’ve put it out of my mind. Major Carey’s arguments were absolutely convincing.” And he smiled again.
“We never can repay Major Carey for all he has done for us,” said Mrs. Marshall, sipping her tea.
“Well, any way, I’m going to try,” answered Morey.
But this meant nothing to Mrs. Marshall, who was buttering a biscuit.
“You had quite a long talk with our old friend. What was the nicest thing he said to you?”
“He said I inherited some of your qualities,” answered Morey with another smile.
“The kind old flatterer,” murmured Morey’s mother.
Nor could she then understand why Morey laughed so heartily. As the two left the table, on an inspiration, the boy took his mother in his arms and kissed her. It was the last kiss he gave her for some weeks.
