"That son of yours," repeated young Andrews, "is a leech. He's robbed you, robbed his wife. Best thing I ever did for you was to send him up the river."
The mother smiled upon him beseechingly.
"Could you give me a pass?" she said.
Young Andrews flung up his hands and appealed to Thorndike.
"Isn't that just like a mother?" he protested. "That son of hers has broken her heart, tramped on her, cheated her; hasn't left her a cent; and she comes to me for a pass, so she can kiss him through the bars! And I'll bet she's got a cake for him in that basket!"
"Was it you," demanded young Andrews, in a puzzled tone, "or your brother who tried to knife me?"
The mother laughed happily; she knew now she would get the pass.
"Mothers," explained Mr. Andrews, from the depth of his wisdom, "are all like that; your mother, my mother. If you went to jail, your mother would be just like that."