"Mothers," explained Mr. Andrews, from the depth of his wisdom, "are all
like that; your mother, my mother. If you went to jail, your mother
would be just like that."
Mr. Thorndike bowed his head politely. He had never considered going to
jail, or whether, if he did, his mother would bring him cake in a
basket. Apparently there were many aspects and accidents of life not
included in his experience.
Young Andrews sprang to his feet, and, with the force of a hose flushing
a gutter, swept his soiled visitors into the hall.
"Come on," he called to the Wisest Man, "the court is open."
* * * * *
In the corridors were many people, and with his eyes on the broad
shoulders of the assistant district attorney, Thorndike pushed his way
through them. The people who blocked his progress were of the class
unknown to him. Their looks were anxious, furtive, miserable. They stood
in little groups, listening eagerly to a sharp-faced lawyer, or, in
sullen despair, eying each other. At a door a tipstaff laid his hand
roughly on the arm of Mr. Thorndike.
"That's all right, Joe," called young Mr.
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