But now from those whose position
enabled them to command a view of the front door of the meeting-house,
rose a sibilant whisper, distinct above the noise of boots and shoes
upon the uncarpeted aisles:
"Here he comes! Here comes Squire."
There were several gentlemen in Stockbridge who, by virtue of a
liberal profession or present or past official dignities, had a claim,
always rigorously enforced and scrupulously conceded, to the title of
Esquire, but when "_The_ Squire," was spoken of, it was always Jahleel
Woodbridge whom the speaker had in mind. Decidedly, those who thought
he would not dare to appear in public had mistaken his temper. His
face, always that of a full-blooded man, was redder than common, in
fact, contrasted with the white powder of his wig, it seemed almost
purple, but that was the only sign he gave that he was conscious of
the people's looks. He wore a long-skirted, straight-cut coat of fine
blue cloth with brass buttons; a brown waistcoat, and small clothes,
satin hose with ruffled white shirt and cuffs. Under one arm he
carried his three-cornered hat and under the other his gold-headed
cane, and walked with his usual firm, heavy, full-bodied step; the
step of a man who is not afraid of making a noise, and expects that
people will look at him.
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