“Tom,” he began, “what are the chances?”
“I don’t know. Scared?”
“I’m a little nervous. That’s all.”
Jenison had loved the fight for its own sake. Spectators supposed he defended Honest John only to earn his huge hire, but that had not been all his motive. It had not occurred to him before that his client was not as courageous as himself. He supported the “presumption of innocence” and pitted himself against machinery of prosecutor and court. But if his client was a coward his fight seemed suddenly unworthy.
Honest John’s puffy eyes filled with tears. “You’ve been a good friend to me, Tom.”
“Oh, cut that.”
“Yes, you have. I appreciate it.”
Jenison, looking at him, wondered that he could ever have thought this man a friend or worth an effort to save. The wretched face sickened him.
“You’re the only man who knows how I feel.” His client was trying to explain his collapse. “I can’t face guilty. I know you’d keep up the fight as long as I kept up the money”—his attorney winced—“but I couldn’t stand another trial. I’m ready for ’em.”
“Ready? How?”