Mr. O 'Brien waived this formality. He and his partner seemed to be rather well pleased with the verdict. They eyed the Court anxiously, hopefully.
“The Court will pronounce sentence on Friday,” announced the justice, his eye on the door. He acted very much like a man who was afraid of being caught in the act of perpetrating something decidedly reprehensible. “I wish to thank the jurors for the careful attention they have given the case and to compliment them on the verdict they have returned in the face of rather trying conditions. It speaks well for the integrity, the soundness of our jury system. I may add, gentlemen, that I shall very seriously consider the recommendation you have made. The prisoner is remanded until next Friday at ten o'clock.”
Half an hour later Sampson found himself in the street. He had spent twenty minutes or more loitering about the halls of the Criminal Courts building, his eager gaze sweeping the throng that was forever changing. It searched remote corners and mounted quadruple stairways; it raked the balcony railings one, two and three flights up; it went down other steps toward the street-level floor. And all the while his own gaze was scouting, the anxious eyes of four other gentlemen were doing the same as his: No. 7, No. 8, No. 6 and No. 12. They were all looking for the trim, natty figure and the enchanting face of Miss Alexandra Hildebrand—vainly looking, for she was nowhere to be seen.
And when Sampson found himself in the street—(a bitter gale was blowing)—he was attended by two gentlemen who justly might have been identified as his most intimate, bosom friends: the lovesick No. 7 and the predatory No. 12. They had him between them as they wended their way toward the Subway station at Worth Street, and they were smoking his cigars (because he couldn't smoke theirs, notwithstanding their divided hospitality)—and they were talking loudly against time. Sampson had the feeling that they were aiming to attach themselves to him for life.
They accepted him as their guiding light, their mentor, their firm example. For all time they would look upon him as a leader of men, and they would be proud to speak of him to older friends as a new friend worth having, worth tying up to, so to say. They seemed only too ready to glorify him, and in doing so gloried in the fact that he was a top-lofty, superior sort of individual who looked down upon them with infinite though gentle scorn.
Moreover, they thought, if they kept on the good side of Sampson they might reasonably expect to obtain an occasional glimpse of Miss Alexandra Hildebrand, for, with his keenness and determination, he was sure to pursue an advantage that both of them reluctantly conceded.
In the Subway local No. 7 invited Sampson to have lunch with him. He suggested the Vanderbilt, but he wasn't sure whether he'd entertain in the main dining room or in the Della Robbia room. He seemed confused and uncertain about it. No. 12 boisterously intervened. He knew of a nice little place in Forty-second Street where you can get the best oysters in New York. He not only invited Sampson to go there. They clung to him, however, until they reached Times Square Station with him but magnanimously included No. 7, which was more than No. 7 had done for him.
Sampson declined. They clung to him, however, until they reached Times Square station. There he said good-bye to them as they left the kiosk.
