"A life is a long time, isn't it, Griscom?" he resumed, gently now.
"Yes." Griscom's chin fell to his breast.
"And the penitentiary is not a good place to be?"
Griscom looked up with the first flash of real spirit he had displayed.
"I wouldn't send a dog there, Mr. Marriott!"
"No," said Marriott, "and you'd like to get out?"
"Sure."
"You've applied for a pardon?"
"Yes."
Marriott's heart was beating fast. At last he had a hope. He could hear the ticking of the big clock on the wall, he could catch the faint echoes of his voice against the high ceiling of the room whose acoustic properties were so poor, he could hear the very breathing of the crowd behind him.