“‘We’?” echoed Caleb. “What d’ye mean? _I’m_ not going to New York with you.” “Mr. Conover!” exclaimed Wendell, shaking his inert host by the shoulder to rouse him from his apparent stupor, “you don’t realize! Gerald is in a cell on a murder charge. To-morrow he will be sent to the Tombs—our city prison—to remain until his case comes up. Then he will be tried for his life and——” “I know all about the course of such things. You don’t need to tell me.” “But this is a life-and-death matter!” “Well, if _I_ can keep cool over it, I presume _you_ can, can’t you? It’s very kind of you to explain all this to me, but it ain’t necessary. I understand everything you’ve told me, and I understand a lot you’ve overlooked. For instance, the pictures that’ll be in all to-morrow’s evening papers of my boy on his way to the Tombs, handcuffed to a plain-clothes man, and pictures of that chorus woman of his in all sorts of poses, and pictures of the ‘stricken father’—that’s me—and Letty figuring as the ‘aged mother, heart-broke at her son’s crime.’ And my daughter and her—the Prince d’Antri. And my house and a diagram of the restaurant where the shooting was done. And there’ll be interviews with the Montmorency thing and accounts of her being brave and visiting Jerry in the Tombs. And a maynoo of what he’ll have for Thanksgiving dinner in his cell. And——” “I’ll do what I can to prevent publicity. I——” “You’ll do nothing of the sort. What happens in public the public has a right to read about. If Jerry’s dragged us into the limelight, can we kick if the papers let folks see us there?” “But surely——” “That’s the easiest part of it. I’ve got to face my wife with this story. Not to-night, but to-morrow anyhow. Sweet job, eh? A white man don’t enjoy squashing the life out of even a guinea-pig in cold blood, let alone a boy’s mother. And reporters’ll begin coming here by sunrise for interviews, and folks’ll be staring at us in the street and offering their measly sympathy and then running off to tell the neighbors how we took it. And every paper we pick up will be full of the ‘latest d’vel’pments’ and all that. And those of us who know Jerry will get into the pleasing habit of remembering what a cute, friendly kid he used to be when he was little, and the great things we used to dream he’d do when he grew up, and how we hustled so’s he’d have as good a chance in life as any young feller on earth. And then we’ll remember he’s waiting in jail to be tried for murdering a chorus slattern’s lover, and all the black, filthy shame he’s put on decent folks that was fools enough to love him, and the way he’s fulfilled them silly hopes of ours. Oh, yes, Wendell, I guess I ‘realize,’ all right, all right. I don’t need no ‘wakening sense.’ But maybe I’ve made it clear to you now why it is I don’t go cavorting off by the next train to console and cheer up the boy who’s brought this on us. I don’t just hanker——”