His library was in his head, and his facts were marshaled in pile after pile of closely-written, dust-covered papers in his shack.

He did not go to court as other lawyers; and there were barristers in Edmonton who blessed him for that.
His shack was his tabernacle of justice.

There he sat, hands folded, and gave out his decisions, his advice, his sentences.

He sat until other men would have gone mad.

From morning until night, moving only for his meals or to get out of heat or storm, he was a fixture on the porch of the Good Old Queen Bess.