“You don’t seem to want to tell me what is wrong, and I want to talk with Pearson to-day. The telephone always rings when I am talking.
“Hello! Yes. You want me to bring Pearson to the office and read to him the warrant which I shall receive this morning? In the mail? His day for trial is set? All right, sir; I will obey orders. Good-bye.
“Pat, you may bring Pearson in. I see the mail is here, or soon will be.”
“May I ask of you one favor?”
“Yes. What is it, Pat?”
“If a fellow—scoundrel, I think, is the best name for me—should repent of a crime before it is committed and never was committed, would you or could you forgive him? Could they send one of them things you are looking for when the postman comes in? Could they send one of them after me to—”
“Yes, Pat, if you are self-confessed criminal of some deed you have committed, you surely would receive one of those warrants.”
“Why didn’t I die when I was a babe, instead of me poor mother, and she here in me shoes and I in hers?”
“You must bring Pearson in here. Here is the postman.”
“I will, your honor.