Focus on Words

Read the text and discuss it.
In about ten minutes the Judge came down. His firm tread came toward the library
door. He paused an instant at the threshold, a tall head above a black bowtie and white
coat, as though to adjust his eyes to the shadow, then moved toward me with his hand
out. “Hello, Jack,” he was saying, in the voice I had always known, “damned glad you
came by. Just get in?”
“Last night,” I said briefly, and rose to take the hand.
He gave me a firm grasp, then waved me back into the chair. “Damned glad you
came by,” he repeated, and smiled.
“How long you been in the house? It’s a long time since I’ve seen you, Jack.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “it is.”
It had been a long time. The last time had been in the middle of the night. With the
Boss. And in the silence after my remark I knew that he was remembering, too. He was
remembering, but after he had said it. “Well, it is a long time,” he said as he settled
himself, as though he had remembered nothing, “but don’t let it be as long next time.
Aren’t you ever coming to see the old fellow? We old ones like a little attention.”
He smiled, and there wasn’t anything I could say into the face of that smile.
“A touch of gin and tonic never hurt anybody. Not you and me, anyway. “
“No, thanks,” I said.
He looked down at me, the faintest shade of disappointment on his face.
“What’s on your mind?
“Nothing much,” I said.
I looked across at him, and didn’t want it to be true. With all my heart, I discovered,
I didn’t want it to be true. And I had the sudden thought that I might have his drink of
gin and tonic, and talk with him and never tell him, and go back to town and tell the
Boss that I was convinced it was not true.
But I had to know the truth. For the truth is a terrible thing. So I looked across at
Judge Irwin, and liked him suddenly in a way I hadn’t liked him in years, his old
shoulders were so straight and the dog-toothed smile so true. But I knew I had to
know.
I stepped to the chair which I had occupied and leant down to pick up the manila
envelope on the floor beside it. Then I moved to his chair, and laid the envelope on his
lap. He looked at the envelope, without touching it. Then he looked up at me, a hard
straight look out of the yellow agates, with no question in them. Then, without saying a
word, he opened the envelope and read the papers there. The light was bad, but he did
not lean forward. He held the papers, one by one, up to his face. He read them very
deliberately. Then he laid the last, deliberately, on his lap.
“I guess you know the next move,” I said.
“I guess so. Your employer is trying to put pressure on me. To blackmail me.”
“Pressure is a prettier word,” I averred 1 .
“I don’t care much about pretty words any more. Does Stark know it?”
“No, he doesn’t,” I replied. “I told him I wouldn’t tell him till I’d seen you. I had
to be sure, you see, Judge.”
“Maybe you’ll never tell him, anyway. I could stop you.”
1 aver [À´vÀ:] – to state the truth of something strongly
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