“None,” I said, “except that I don’t want to have him, or anybody,
hanged.”
On the man’s face, tired, with the expression of world-weariness life
gives to the countenance behind which there has been too much serious
contemplation of life, a face that seemed prematurely wrinkled, there
suddenly appeared a smile as winning as a woman’s, and he said in a
voice that had the timbre of human sympathy and the humor of a peculiar
drawl:
“Well, you’re all right, then.”
It thereupon occurred to the governor’s secretary to introduce us, and
so I made the acquaintance of Clarence Darrow. He had taken it upon
himself to neglect his duties as the attorney of some of the railroads
and other large corporations in Chicago long enough to come down to
Springfield on his own initiative and responsibility to plead with the
Governor for this lad’s life (he was always going on some such Quixotic
errand of mercy for the poor and the friendless), and we retired to the
governor’s ante-chamber to await the coming of Gill. We talked for a
while about the Prendergast case, which might have had more sympathetic
consideration had it not persisted as the Carter Harrison case in
the mind of that public, which when its latent spirit of vengeance
is aroused can so easily become the mob, but it was not long until I
discovered that Darrow had read books other than those of the law,
and for an hour we talked of Tolstoy and the other great Russians,
and of Thomas Hardy and of Mr. Howells, to enumerate no more of the
long catalogue of those realists whom we liked in common, and when I
discovered that he actually knew Mr. Howells, knew him personally, as
the saying is, I could feel that poor Prendergast, though I had never
seen him in my life, or scarcely ever thought of him until the night
before, had done me one service at least, and it made me all the more
anxious to save him.
When Joe Gill’s tall Egyptian form came swinging into the room our
talk of books was interrupted long enough to arrange for a hearing
that afternoon, and then we resumed our talk, and it endured through
luncheon and after, and I left him only long enough to have a
conversation with Gill and to ask him as a sort of personal favor to an
old friend to spare the boy’s life.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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