Martin started at the sound of the Judge’s voice, every fibre in his body tingling with instant defiance.
The defendant’s attorney answered “Ready,” but Martin made no response. He knew he did not intend to argue the case and should promptly state the fact.
“Phelps vs. Orson?” repeated the Justice inquiringly.
“Ready!” answered Martin, yielding to the call of sheer perversity.
It was childish, petty, absurd—and he knew it. But at that moment to defy custom, to oppose everything and everybody, to hamper and obstruct the Court in every possible manner, no matter how futile, seemed absolutely essential to the assertion of his independence and the maintenance of his self-respect.
Some one vacated a seat immediately in front of the nervous reporter who hastily gathered his papers together and moved into the empty chair. Martin at once rose and took the journalist’s place. As he did so he felt something crackle beneath him, and rising picked up a crumpled piece of paper from the seat. It was a sheet torn from a reporter’s pad, and as he lazily unfolded it Martin saw it was covered with writing in a weak, boyish hand. To the initiated the scribbles were unmistakable studies in newspaper captions or headings—the “makeup” of which Martin recalled as a fad of his cub-reporter days.
The first attempt was as follows:
“A Candidate Coralled.”