“Then let me get up and testify something—whatever you say. Let me do something!”
“I’m sorry, Babbitt, but the best thing you can do— I hate to say it, but you could help us most by keeping strictly out of it.”
Babbitt, revolving his hat like a defaulting poor tenant, winced so visibly that Maxwell condescended:
“I don’t like to hurt your feelings, but you see we both want to do our best for Riesling, and we mustn’t consider any other factor. The trouble with you, Babbitt, is that you’re one of these fellows who talk too readily. You like to hear your own voice. If there were anything for which I could put you in the witness-box, you’d get going and give the whole show away. Sorry. Now I must look over some papers— So sorry.”
II
He spent most of the next morning nerving himself to face the garrulous world of the Athletic Club. They would talk about Paul; they would be lip-licking and rotten. But at the Roughnecks’ Table they did not mention Paul. They spoke with zeal of the coming baseball season. He loved them as he never had before.
III
He had, doubtless from some story-book, pictured Paul’s trial as a long struggle, with bitter arguments, a taut crowd, and sudden and overwhelming new testimony. Actually, the trial occupied less than fifteen minutes, largely filled with the evidence of doctors that Zilla would recover and that Paul must have been temporarily insane. Next day Paul was sentenced to three years in the State Penitentiary and taken off—quite undramatically, not handcuffed, merely plodding in a tired way beside a cheerful deputy sheriff—and after saying good-by to him at the station Babbitt returned to his office to realize that he faced a world which, without Paul, was meaningless.