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During Babson's desertion the managing editor called Una in and demanded, "Did Mr. Babson give you some copy about the Manning Wind Shield? No? Will you take a look in his desk for his notes about it?" While Una was fumbling for the notes she did not expect to find, she went through all the agony of the little shawled foreign wife for the husband who has been arrested.
For several nights they appeared, and on the 4th of July half a dozen of them were seen so plainly that the soldiers made a sally, Babson bringing three of "ye unaccountable troublers" to the ground with a single shot, and getting a response in kind, for a bullet hissed by his ear and buried itself in a tree.
Golden respectably desired to know Mr. Babson ever had a garden, or seen Panama? And was Una really attending to her duties? All the while Mrs. Golden's canary trilled approval of the conversation. Una listened, numbed, while Walter kept doing absurd things with his face pinched his lips and tapped his teeth and rubbed his jaw as though he needed a shave.
Tutt, replacing the bottle and tumbler within the lower drawer and flicking a stogy ash from his waistcoat, "the honorable justice who handed it to us is no friend of ours." "He isn't," assented his partner. "It was Babson and he hates Italians. Moreover, he stated in open court that he proposed to try the case himself next Monday and that we must be ready without fail."
"The defense rests," said Mr. Tutt, ignoring the interruption. "So far as we are concerned the case is closed." "Both sides rest!" snapped Babson. "How long do you want to sum up?" Mr. Tutt looked at the clock, which pointed to three. The regular hour of adjournment was at four. Delay was everything in a case like this.
"Well oh, that's just miffle-business, that kind of a job. Well, you'd better learn to express yourself, anyway. Some time you women folks will come into your own with both feet. Whenever you get the chance, take my notes and try to write a better spiel from them than I do.... That won't be hard, I guess!" "I don't know why you are so modest, Mr. Babson.
He dreamed of a legal heaven, of a great wooden throne upon which sat Babson in a black robe and below him twelve red-faced angels in a double row with harps in their hands, chanting: "Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!" An organ was playing somewhere, and there was a great noise of footsteps. Then a bell twinkled and he raised his head and saw that the chancel was full of lights and white-robed priests.
Turning she saw Belinda Babson running along the little foot path, her long yellow braids shining in the sun, and her round blue eyes showing her pleasure at sight of her friend. "Why Belinda! Where did you come from?" cried Randy, "I'd no idea that anyone was near me."
"What crimes are sometimes committed in thy name!" But on the steps he stopped and looked back affectionately at the library window. "After all, Althea's a good sport!" he remarked to himself. At or about the same moment a quite dissimilar conference was being held between Judge Babson and Assistant District Attorney O'Brien in the café of the Passamaquoddy Club.
He reached it just as Judge Babson and his attendant were coming into the courtroom and the crowd were making obeisance. Everybody else was in his proper place. "You may proceed, Mr. Tutt," said the judge after the roll of the jury had been called. But Mr. Tutt was in a daze, in no condition to think or speak. There was a curious rustling in his ears and his sight was somewhat blurred.
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