The Captain shrugged. “I don’t mind if she does,” he said. “Nice-lookin’ dish, ain’t she?”
I agreed very heartily.
The trial was fixed at last, and the court-room was packed to the ceiling. Strong men trampled on weak women to get in; strong women gave up in despair. It was a real picnic for the men all right. They’d come to see Fanquist, and nothing on two legs would stop them.
The Judge was a dopey-looking old hound. The D.A. seemed nervous, but the defending counsel was as cocky as hell. There was not one woman on the jury. I thought that it was almost inevitable the Fanquist woman was going to get acquitted.
I had a front seat, a packet of sandwiches, and a flask of rye. No one was going to stampede me. Jackson, the night editor, was with me. We both felt that we had an interest in the case.
Fanquist looked good. She sat by her counsel, quiet, still and restful. Boy; how she could dress! Any young dope wanting to know what the female form looked like had only to step up and get an eyeful of Fanquist. He’d learn more in that glance than all the text-books on anatomy could teach him in a year.
“If I have to watch that dame all day,” the night editor grumbled, “I shall go nuts.”
I understood how he felt even though he was a coarse-minded slob. I knew the court-room was steamed up to hell.
The D.A. got to his feet for his opening speech. It lacked the ginger and hate he usually worked into his openers.
“That guy,” the night editor grumbled, “ain’t got his mind on his job. If you ask me, he’s worried by his lower nature.”