“Oh, you got a dirty deal, Henry–how could she do it?” cried the woman.
He did not answer and they walked up a dingy street. A car came howling by.
“Got car fare,” he asked. She nodded.
“Well, I haven’t,” he said, “but I’m going with you.”
They boarded the car. They were the only passengers. They sat down, and he said, under the roar of the wheels:
“Violet–it’s a shame–a damn shame, and I’m not going to stand for it. This a Market Street car?” he asked the conductor who passed down the aisle for their fares. The woman paid. When the conductor was gone, Henry continued:
“Three kids and a mother robbed by a Judge who knew better–just to stand in with the kept attorneys of the bar association. He could have knocked the shenanigan, that killed Hogan, galley west, if he’d wanted to, and no Supreme Court would have dared to set it aside. But no–the kept lawyers at the Capital, and all the Capitals have a mutual admiration society, and Tom has always belonged. So he turns you and all like you on the street, and Violet, before God I’m going to try to help you.”
She looked at the slick, greasy, torn stiff hat, and the dirty, shiny clothes that years ago had been his Sunday best, and the shaggy face and the sallow, unwashed skin; and she remembered the man who was.
The car passed into South Harvey. She started to rise. “No,” he said, stopping her, “you come on with me.”
“Where are we going?” she asked. He did not answer. She sat down. Finally the car turned into Market Street. They got off at the bank corner. The man took hold of the woman’s arm, and led her to the alley. She drew back.