"I will what, Mr.Beecher?" asked the boy.He had forgotten the previous remark.
Mr.Beecher looked at Edward and sighed."Hear about it," he said.
"I don't think I understand you," was the reply.
"No, I don't think you do," he said."I mean, you will some day hear about that suit.And I don't know," then he hesitated, "but--but you might as well get it straight.You say you were twelve then," he mused.
"What were you doing when you were twelve?""Going to school," was the reply.
"Yes, of course," said Mr.Beecher."Well," he continued, turning on his haunches so that his back rested against the box, "I am going to tell you the story of that suit, and then you'll know it."Edward said nothing, and then began the recital of a story that he was destined to remember.It was interesting then, as Mr.Beecher progressed; but how thrice interesting that wonderful recital was to prove as the years rolled by and the boy realized the wonderful telling of that of all stories by Mr.Beecher himself!
Slowly, and in that wonderfully low, mellow voice that so many knew and loved, step by step, came the unfolding of that remarkable story.Once or twice only did the voice halt, as when, after he had explained the basis of the famous suit, he said:
"Those were the charges.That is what it was all about."Then he looked at Edward and asked: "Do you know just what such charges mean?""I think I do," Edward replied, and the question was asked with such feeling, and the answer was said so mechanically, that Mr.Beecher replied simply: "Perhaps.""Well," he continued, "the suit was a 'long one,' as you said.For days and weeks, yes, for months, it went on, from January to July, and those were very full days: full of so many things that you would hardly understand."And then he told the boy as much of the days in court as he thought he would understand, and how the lawyers worked and worked, in court all day, and up half the night, preparing for the next day."Mostly around that little table there," he said, pointing to a white, marble-topped table against which the boy was leaning, and which now stands in Edward Bok's study.
"Finally the end came," he said, "after--well, months.To some it seemed years," said Mr.Beecher, and his eyes looked tired.
"Well," he continued, "the case went to the jury: the men, you know, who had to decide.There were twelve of them.""Was it necessary that all twelve should think alike?" asked the boy.
"That was what was hoped, my boy," said Mr.Beecher--"that was what was hoped," he repeated.
"Well, they did, didn't they?" Edward asked, as Mr.Beecher stopped.
"Nine did," he replied."Yes; nine did.But three didn't.Three thought--" Mr.Beecher stopped and did not finish the sentence."But nine did," he repeated."Nine to three it stood.That was the decision, and then the judge discharged the jury," he said.
There was naturally one question in the boyish mind to ask the man before him--one question! Yet, instinctively, something within him made him hesitate to ask that question.But at last his curiosity got the better of the still, small voice of judgment.
"And, Mr.Beecher--" the boy began.
But Mr.Beecher knew! He knew what was at the end of the tongue, looked clear into the boy's mind; and Edward can still see him lift that fine head and look into his eyes, as he said, slowly and clearly:
"And the decision of the nine was in exact accord with the facts."He had divined the question!
As the two rose from the floor that night Edward looked at the clock.It was past midnight; Mr.Beecher had talked for two hours; the boy had spoken hardly at all.
As the boy was going out, he turned to Mr.Beecher sitting thoughtfully in his chair.
"Good night, Mr.Beecher," he said.
The Plymouth pastor pulled himself together, and with that wit that never forsook him he looked at the clock, smiled, and answered: "Good morning, I should say.God bless you, my boy." Then rising, he put his arm around the boy's shoulders and walked with him to the door.
