"I've got to speak to the Judge. I'm sorry."
He stammered out his half-apology awkwardly enough, but the smouldering fires were still alight in his brown eyes, tragic fires of cowed and rebellious youth. The great man regarded him indifferently for a minute and then turned rather ostentatiously to his papers again.
"Judge, I've got to speak to you alone."
"You can't just now, son."
"I've got to."
"Why?"
The Judge's kind, drawling voice was not quite as usual, and his blue, near-sighted eyes were not; they were wistful and deprecating, and rather tired, a beaten man's eyes, eyes with an irresistible appeal to the race that is vowed to lost causes, this boy's race. The boy stepped instinctively closer.
"I don't blame you, sir, but I've got to understand this and know what's behind it."
"Better go home before you say anything you'll be sorry for, Neil."
"Why did you go back on me?"