“When I am old enough to be eligible for election, I dare say; in the meantime let me rejoice that I am not yet brought to heel.”
Laughing at the vagaries of each other, advocate and client went out together, called a cab, and drove to the prison.
XVIII
TO THE PRISON
No sooner had Northcote entered the vehicle than his mood underwent a curious transformation. His heart began to beat rapidly, his hands to shake, his knees to tremble. His brain grew so hot that a vapor was thrown in front of his eyes. Extraordinary emotions overcame him to such a degree that he could not discern any of the faces in the street.
“You are very quiet,” said the solicitor, after awhile.
“Yes, I dare say,” said the young man, in a voice which in his own ears sounded thin and high-strung.
“Why not talk? That is your métier. You were much more amusing last night on the way to Norbiton.”
“Somehow I don’t feel as though I have anything to say. My head is so full of this affair.”
“Don’t think about it too much or it may get you down,” said Mr. Whitcomb, puffing quietly at his cigar; “although to-morrow you are certain to be in a horrible funk, as it is the first job of the kind you have ever had to tackle. Nor will it make it the easier for you when you reflect that the line you have decided to take will add immensely to your difficulties.”
Mr. Whitcomb spoke with the quiet incisiveness of one whom experience has rendered callous. From the leisurely candor and nonchalance of his manner a trial for murder was made to appear of rather less moment than the obtaining of a judgment in a county court. Such coolness contrasted so oddly with the young man’s own perturbation that he was thrown completely out of conceit with himself.