The judge usually had the checkerboard out and set when Tom arrived.
Afternoons passed in much the same manner, and night found Tom, if not actually exhausted from the unceasing grind, at least pleasurably fatigued thereby and ready for an after-dinner doze.

He considered himself seriously overworked.
This morning "Bob" was alone at her desk when he came out, and something about her appearance caused the old warrior to look twice.

He was exactly on time, but the judge could wait.

He was a cranky old scoundrel anyhow, was Judge Halloran, and it would do him good to cool his heels for a few minutes.

Tom paused with his hand upon the door knob.
"My goodness! son, you're all dressed up!" he said, as he noted "Bob's" crisp white dress, the rose upon her bosom, the floppy hat that framed her face.