“I’ve got it here.” Honest John tapped his chest, then drew out a narrow pill box.
Contempt came back into Jenison’s eyes. “What are you telling me for? Go tell some one who’d care.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Tom.”
“Oh, yes, you do. You’d never take that stuff. You haven’t the nerve. You’re stalling for sympathy.”
The politician turned to an ice-water stand and dropped two tablets into a glass of water. He said with tremulous bravado, “All right—here goes.”
“You might as well drink it,” answered the attorney. “God knows you’re guilty. You’ll pay for it some time.”
The glass went halfway to Honest John’s lips and then back to the stand. “I think—I’ll wait.”
“I thought so. You’ll wait until you’re behind bars, and then you’ll wish you’d taken your medicine.” Jenison spoke as if it had been his professional advice to his client to drink the potion. “It takes a man to quit when the game’s up. I suppose in a way I’m as dishonest as you, but there’s a chance for me to clean up, because I’m not afraid. If I thought the name helping you has given me would stick, I’d be glad to take your poison.”
They heard a shuffling of feet in the courtroom.
“There’s an officer announcing that they’ve reached a verdict,” said Jenison. He looked his client in the eyes and added, “I hope it’s guilty!”