By Lyman Bryson
Into the judge’s empty office came the attorney for the defense, followed by his client. The attorney for the defense wore belligerent hair and spectacles. His manner was more upright and simple than his speech, which was full of guile. His client was heavy, of the ugly fatness often characteristic of ward politicians, porcine, grossly genial. They had come to escape the gaping crowd. The attorney was recovering from his four-hour address to the jury. Sweat stood under his upstanding hair, and he wiped his wrists with a limp handkerchief.
“Honest John” looked at his lawyer with dull admiration. “Tom, that was a great speech.” Then, as if this might be too humble praise for a politician to give his hireling, he added: “Best you ever made.”
Tom Jenison made no reply. When he was tired there was a quality of frankness in his eyes as if cleverness had been assumed for business purposes.
“How long will they be out?” asked Honest John, thinking of the twelve who were debating in a nearby room on sending him to the penitentiary for stealing public money.
“How should I know?” Jenison spoke petulantly.
The politician sat quietly, his fat hands folded above the top of his trousers on his negligee shirt. He was thinking that generous public sentiment might avail little with the twelve men now busy with his destiny. He sighed tremulously.
“You’re not worried, are you?”
“No—guess not. I’m all right.”
The composure of the politician began to desert him. He flushed and sighed and slapped at flies. His jaw relaxed and slid down. His hands trembled.