“Wait—for God’s sake, wait!” In a strangled frenzied gurgle the helpless man pumped forth the entreaty.
“Why should I wait? They don’t have capital punishment any more in this state. All they can do is pile another life term on the one I’m already doing.”
“But wait—oh, please wait! I do seem to remember you now. Maybe—maybe I was too severe. If I took your case under advisement—if I pardoned you—if-if—” He was begging so hard that he babbled.
The pressure of that deadly thing at his throat was relaxed the least bit.
“Now you’re getting reasonable,” said the lifer. “I thought the thing I wanted most in the world was to kill you. But after four years here, liberty would be pretty sweet too. There’s one thing they’ve always said about you—that you keep your word. Swear you’ll keep your trap shut about what’s happened in this shop today, and on top of that swear to me you’ll turn me out of here, and you can go!”
On these terms then the bargain was struck. The governor, having given his promise, had a good shave, twice over, with witch-hazel for a lotion, and having somewhat mastered his jumping nerves and regained his customary dignity, went home with the warden for luncheon.
From the foot of the table, little Mrs. Riddle shot covert smiles at him—and soft languishing glances. There was meaningness in her manner, in her caressing voice. Her husband talked along, suspecting nothing. He thought—if he gave it a thought—that she was flattered at having the governor at her board. As for the governor, even in his shaken state he had a secret glowing within.
As he was leaving, he remarked in a casual tone to his host:
“That pet barber of yours—Wyeth, I believe his name is. He interested me—aroused my sympathy, in fact.”