R ThePardon of Thomas Whalen I
■ By BRAND WHITLOCK
_oR QT -THE THIRTEENTH DISTRICT.” "HER INFINITE VARIETY." I
i^HAFFT AVERAGE." "THE TORN OF THE BALANCE." ETC. ETC. £
IIn'ih~ MrrrHi f^i1111|i ~ ~~ ~ '
IBB private secretary
turned reluctantly from
bis open window beside
which the trees bathed
their young leaves in the
sparkling sunshine of the
June morning to con
front the throng that
awaited audience with
the governor. The throng
ir than usual for the
rention was to be held
iorrow. Every county in
was represented in the
trampled the red carpet,
3 leather chairs and blew
of campaign cigars into
faces of former governors
their massive gilt frames
hands on ponderous law
one corner a woman hud
ing a handkerchief to her
and then she sobbed aloud.
iard Gilman, the private
aw her he knew it at once
a case, and paid no further
i her.
is an odor of perspiration
n, distinguishable even in
umes of tobacco. The real
;ourse, William Handy and
were over at the executive
ith the governor, complet
1 arrangements for his re
The governor held the
in the hollow of his hand,
an huddled in her corner
o’clock, and then Gilman,
into her quarter of the
l her what she wanted, lis
official respect for her re
an old story to him. When
i he smiled a strange smile
away. At noon the gover
i gauntlet of the waiting
;ained the sanctuary of his
3 Onr-p there hreathine.fi
I Ugh of relief, he stood for a moment
h one of the tall windows looking out
ipon the smooth lawns stretching laz
ily In the sun and rolling away to the
tbns surrounding the state house. He
ns a tall man and strong. If he had
i physical fault, it was that he carried
Us head too low, denoting him a think
sr, but if his gaze was fixed upon the
>arth, his thoughts were in the stars.
Presently ho shook his splendid head
rigorously, wrapped his long coat de
;ermined!y about him, and settled him
lelf at his desk.
Gilman entered, bearing a pile of
rapers demanding the governor’s per
lonal attention, but the morning con
fcrence was very brief on this day.
is Gilman turned to go, the governor
"I desire to be alone today. I have
hat speech of acceptance to write. If
landy comes, send him in, but no one
Gilman laid his hand upon the door
nob and the governor asked:
“No one of importance out there, is
“No,” said Gilman. “There’s a wom
n—what do you think she wants?”
“A pardon, of course.”
"Yes, but for whom? You’d never
uess In a thousand years.” Gilman
ras smiling.
“Then tell me.”
“Tom Whalen!” Gilman laughed
t the humor of it.
The governor’s features relaxed with
smile, but quickly his brow con
id again, and he said:
Eell—poor things—I pity them. I
rid wash my hands in women’s
ira every week.”
“Well,” said Gilman, opening the
w, “I told her she could see you.
I slide her out."
The governor bent to his desk, but
it as the door was closing ho called:
Uh, Gilman!”
Oilman stopped.
“Don’t do that—tell her I’ll see her
"ter a while.”
Oilman, as he returned to his desk,
•oiled and shook his head at the gov
wnor’s weakness.
Thomas Whalen was a life convict
“ the Penitentiary. The crime was
committed on the night of the election
• which John Chatham had been cho
•en chief executive of his state. Wha
en was a boss in the nineteenth ward
a Chatham man. The campaign
developed such bitterness that
alen found it necessary to name
. a Judge of election in the
Hi.1™ i)r€c*cct of his ward. Many
os during the day blue patrol
;jfons bud rolled into the precinct.
rhe polling place of the fourth pre
, “ct„Was a small barber shop in Fif
ths h DurlnS tbe evening, as
hm..D.a °ts wcrc being counted, it had
w. *fe apparent that an altercation
blinds0 p'ogress behind the yellow
bv a * Was abruptly terminated
eitinoa ?ti Tbe ligbts in the shop were
^ngutshed at the same moment. A
When lrSt rrora tb® door and fled.
I doas f pPlico arrived, they found
en tha t option judge face downward
broknsiriabm' His name bad been
tire]v ' Tbe bullet had passed en
withyJhr°Ugh ,lis b°dv. and reddened
bum ts bl°0d tbe> ba,lots that gushed
*>w si v. °ICTturned box- Tbe win
•btttaa back bad been completely
to the an by tbe bal1 as ** flew out ln’
i thirtv eyu This was a large bullet,
toWia^f',1 Ca,ibe” Tbe Police
«thedsrl ? Ver gleaming ln tbe light
th« aiiPV K lanterns they flashed down
With “ Was a thirty-eight caliber
tha*^pty cbamber- It was evi
at the murderer had discarded
it in his flight. A lieutenant of police
at the Market Place police station eas
ily identified the gun as one he had
given to Whalen several weeks previ
ously. The judges and clerks had
rushed after Whalen. The shock, the
sudden failure of light, the horror of
the dead man in the dark had jangled
their nerves. They were too excited
to give a clear account of the affair.
They knew that Whalen and Brokoski,
sitting on opposite sides of the table,
had been quarreling. They had heard
the shot, had been blinded by the flash,
and had seen Whalen bolt. Brokoski
had fallen heavily upon the table, and
died with an oath upon his lips.
Gilman never forgot that wild night.
He had spent it with the governor at
the headquarters of the state central
committee. In the dawn, when the
east was yellowing, and sparrows be
gan to scuffle and splutter on the
eaves of the federal building looming
dour just over the way, the news of
the murder and frauds had come to
them. The governor’s face, white with
excitement and fatigue, had suddenly
darkened. Had it been the shadow
cast by the passing of a great ambi
tion?
At the close of the long day the
woman, beckoned by Gilman into the
governor’s presence, lingered on the
threshold of the chamber. The room
was full of shadows. The figure of the
governor, standing in the tall window,
shut out the waning light, and was sil
houetted, big and black, against the
twilight sky. He did not hear the
woman enter. She coughed to attract
his attention. This did not arouse him
from his reverie, and after a moment’s
timid hesitation, she said:
/r_T ___ •_nit
1'J UiJ A 1U •
The governor turned. “Be seated,
madam,”- he said. “I shall be quite
frank with you. I am acquainted with
this case, and do not believe it to be
one justifying executive clemency.”
When she spoke her voice was trem
ulous.
“Will you hear my story?”
"You may proceed,” the governor re
plied. He had pushed the papers aside
and was drumming lightly with his
long, white fingers on his desk.
The woman nervously pleated her
handkerchief, fearing to begin. “You
must excuse me,” she said presently,
“I can not tell my story very well. I
do not come here for mercy or any
thing like that. It is only a matter of
justice.”
Had it not been for the gloom, she
might have seen a smile steal over the
face of the dark figure at the desk.
Once plunged into her narrative, her
words flowed rapidly, until—suddenly
she ceased to speak.
“That was five years ago,” she said,
her voice dropping to a sadly reminis
cent whisper. “We were to have been
married that spring, but—I would rath
er not tell the rest.”
The woman probably felt her cheeks
flush with warmth.
The governor could hear he? quick
breathing. In a minute he said kind
ly:
“Well?” \
The woman hesitated an Instant,
and then fairly blurted out the rest of
her tale. The governor, through the
darkness, saw the woman lean, pant
ing, toward him. Convulsively she
pressed her hands to her face. She
collapsed in tears. When her sobs
became more regular, though still la
bored, the governor said:
“And Whalen—he knew this?"
"He must have known.”
“Then why did he not tell?”
The woman hung her head and said,
in a low voice:
“I was mistaken, sir. The other
WftmoTi **
• The governor sat for a long time in
somber silence. The woman could
hear the ticking of his watch. Pres
ently he drew it from his pocket and
struck a match.
“It is growing late,” ho said. “The
tale you tell is a very remarkable tale.
My time is so fully occupied that it
will be impossible for me to devote
any though^ to it just now. If you
will leave your address with my sec
retary I shall communicate with you.
Meanwhfle—do not talk.”
The convention met. The secretary
never got down to S in calling the roll
of counties, and the governor was re
nominated by acclamation. But never
in all the exciting scenes of those two
days, in the black moment of suspense
before the roll-call began, in the white
instant of agony pending the poll of
the Richland county delegation, in the
golden hour o^trlumph, when he stood
pale and bending before the mad ap
plause rolling up to him in mighty
billows, did- he forget the name of
Thomas Whalen, or did the face of
that woman pass from him. They
followed him persistently, they glim
mered in his dreams. There was no
escape from their pursuit.
After a week in which he found no
ease, with the determination that char
acterized him when once aroused, he
undertook a judicial investigation of
the case. He obtained a transcript of
record, and read it as carefully as if
he had been retained in the case and
sought error upon which to carry it.
to the supreme court. In the familiar
work he found for a time relief.
Gilman, meanwhile, had forgotten
the Incident of the woman’s visit. The
idea of pardoning Tom Whalen was
•
too preposterous to merit serious con
sideration. But, when the governor
told him to go to the penitentiary and
interview Whalen, and then to the city
and the locality of the crime for the
purpose of learning all he could abotrt
Brokoski’s death, he damned himself
for having mentioned the fact of the
woman’s presence on that crowded,
tobacco-clogged, perspiring morning.
And as he left the capitol he resolved
that, his visit should bo astonishingly
barren of results.
Inside the warden’s private office at
the penitentiary he saw Whalen. The
man had found the convict’s friend,
consumption, and Gilman hardly know
him. When the private secretary told
him of the application for his pardon,
Whalen only smiled. Gilman found
hnn strangely reticent, and after an
effort to induce him to talk said:
“Whalen, really now, did you kill
Brokoski?”
The striped convict picked at the
cap lie held in his lap. A bitter smilo
i wrinkled his pale, moist face.
“Suspected again, eh?" he said, with
out looking up.
Finally Whalen tired of the exami
nation. lie breathed with difficulty, but
that may have been due to his dis
ease. At last ho raised his shaven
head.
“Mr. Gilman,” he said, “I see what
you’re getting at. I have told you I
did not commit the crime for which I
am here.
“But you haven’t answered my ques
tion,” said Gilman, interested in spite
of himself, for a great fear was grow
ing up within him; “you have not told
me who did kill Brokoski.”
The convict lifted his eyelids slow
ly, and fastened his vision upon, his
interlocutor. And then he said very
deliberately and distinctly;
“No, Mr. Gilman, and I never will!”
Gilman left the penitentiary with
more than its gloom upon him. He
declined the warden’s effusive invita
tion to stay to dinner. He wanted to
• get away. He could not forget the
shine in Whalen’s eyes. And the fear
within possessed him.
When he reached the city, after din
ing at the chop house where his old
friends foregathered, he went out to
Fifteenth street. Costello had sold
his barber shop, and the place had be
come a saloon. The saloon was quiet
that night. Gilman drank with the
bartender, and, of course, talked about
the Brokoski killing. The bartender
had made a study of that case, and
discussed it with the curled lip of the
specialist.
“They didn’t do a t’ing to Tom but
ho had done he laughed. The gover
nor was seriously silent for many min
utes, and then he said:
“Leonard, 1 want you to tell me your
theory of this whole business.”
Oilman sat up. “Well,” he said,
“had it never occurred to you that it
would have been significant, to deter
mine where that bullet lodged as show
ing its direction? It bored a hole clear
through Brokoski, but at which end
had it entered?”
“I presume the medical testimony
settled that,” replied the governor, lie
; seemed to find a species of relief in
this thought.
"Yes,” Oilman said, “but the medi
cal testimony was bad. It consisted
of the conclusions of a young doctor
who examined Brokoski’s body after it
had grown cold. He accepted Wha
len’s guilt as an established fact. Ho
assumed that the bullet entered at the
breast. There was then nothing to
do but to trace its course through the
tissues of the body. If his views’ were
correct, the ball wouid have lodged
somewhero behind Brokoski.”
“But it flew out into the alley,” ar
gued the governor, “and shattered the
window In doing so.”
“True,” assented Oilman, “and yet
you assume all the while that Whalen
fired the shot. Of course the circum
stances attending the tragedy, the oc
casion, the quarrel, Whalen’s flight,
and the finding of his gun, lent strong
color to that presumption.”
“But the shattered window,” the
governor interpolated.
“Yes, and the shattered window.
Now,” he continued, “a surgeon, ex
perienced in gunshot wounds, might
have been able to distinguish in such
a wound as Brokoski’s the point of
the missile’s entrance from the point
of exit. Of course it is not certain.
The youth the police called did not
think such an inquiry important,
whereas it was vital. A pistol fired
point-blank at a man would blacken
his breast with powder. The velocity
of the hall, fired at such range might
have been sufficient to knock the man
over backward, instead of allowing
him to fall upon his face as he did.
Then, there’s the window. It was shat
tered, the police said, by the ball. Even
the glass in the upper sash was broken.
The frame on the outside was black
ened by powder, the stains even now
being visible. Now, a bullet flying the
distance it must have traversed be
tween Whalen’s hand and the window,
would, in all probability, simply have
perforated the glass with a round,
clean hole. But the weapon having
been fired in close proximity, the con
t’row the hooks into ’im all right, all
right. It was a case of him in the
stripes from the start. Say, them law
yer guys and fly-cops’d frost you.”
Then carefully locating the actors in
the tragedy, he reproduced it vividly
before Gilman’s eyes. Brokoski had
faced the wall where the hole was.
Whalen’s back had been to it. Bro
koski bad sat with his back to the
window. The barkeeper plunged his
red hands into a drawer, rattled a
corkscrew, a knife, a revolver and a
jigger, and then drew out a small
piece of lead. It was a thirty-eight
caliber bullet.
“That’s the boy that done Brokoski,”
he said.
“Where did you get it?” asked Gil
man, with the mild awe a curio excites
in men.
The bartender pointed to a ragged
hole in the wainscoting.
“Dug it out o’ there with the ice
pick. I’m a Sherlock, see? Sure,” he
sneered, “it might ’a’ bounced off the
Polock’s breast.”
The man wiped his towel over the
bar in disgust.
Then seriously:
“On the dead, Mr. Gilman, If Tom
had his rights, he’d sent back to the
ward to die.”
Gilman was troubled. He returned
in the morning and examined the
premises carefully. At two-twenty
that afternoon he was on the Limited,
flying back to the capital.
That evening he was sitting with
the governor in the library of the
executive mansion.
Then Gilman told of his interview
with Whalen.
“Has it ever struck you as peculiar,”
ho said, “that the bullet was not in
troduced in evidence?”
“No," said the governor, "not very.”
The private secretary paused. When
cussion shattered the whole window.”
After a silence Gilman resumed:
“Now, then, assume that the hullet
entered Brokoski’s back and emerged
from his breast. Thr conclusion de
duced from the circumstances I have
suggested is impregnable when that
bullet is located in a position in front
of Brokoski.”
During the recital the governor lay
in his deep chair, his arms across his
breast, his finger-tips together. He re
garded Gilman through half-closed
eyes. A thoughtful observer would
have said that he had heard the essen
tial elements of the tale before. When
he spoke, after a silence which had
begun to annoy the private secretary,
he said:
“Well, your hypothesis is tenable.
In fact, it is one of the prettiest cases
I ever saw put together.”
Gilman stirred uneasily.
“But did you learn anything as to
the identity of the person, who, if
your suppositions are correct, killed
Brokoski?”
“That’s the weak point,” Gilman
promptly admitted. “A sufficient mo
tive is utterly lacking, if we eliminate
partisan hatred. It was shown that
Whalen killed him in an impulse of
passion, and that alone saved him
from the death penalty. But I feel that
my reasoning is valid. The convic-«
tion was strengthened by Whalen’s
manner and expression the other day.
He never killed Brokoski, I tell you.”
Gilman smote his thigh for emphasis.
“Why he chooses to die in prison a
silent martyr I don’t know—but the
woman does.”
/The governor assumed a sitting pos
ture.
"Damn it!” exclaimed Gilman, after
a momentary silence, "if those stupid
police had examined the mud in the
alley beneath the window that night.
they would have found tracks that
would have changed the course of
this whole business.”
Tho governor bent farther forward,
burying himself in an intense concen
tration of mind. For a time intermi
nable to Gilman, be sat thus. Tlis cigar
went out. The ice in his glass melted,
spun on the crystal brim, and sank
with a tiny splash and tinkle.
Gilman took a sip of liquor, lighted
a fresh cigarette, rose, and walked up
and down the room. Ho thought of
tho election, so near at hand. He
looked at tho governor bowed there be
fore him. What was Whalen, or the
woman, or anybody to him? I yet. the
prisoner die! What was ho to the
governor? John Chatham's party
needed him. his country needed him,
his time needed him, mankind and hu
man progress needed him. If he par
doned Whalen, what was to become of
him? The conviction of Brokoski's
murderer alone could save him from
such apparent, stultification, here on
the eve of an election at which, in tho
foolish phrase of modern politics, he
sought vindication. Was this convic
tion possible? The bare thought halted
Gilman beside.the governor. He laid
a hand on his shoulder.
“These abstruse propositions
wouldn’t stand before a jury in a crim
inal court,” ho said. “Let Whalen
stay.”
The governor lifted his head
"But you just now said that lie was
not Brokoski’s murderer.”
Gilman, hesitated. When ho spoke,
he said:
“A jury of twelvo sworn men has
said that ho is.”
Two days after the private secre
tary’s return, tho newspapers were
full of stories concerning his move
ments. Whalen’s picture was exploit
ed, correspondents sought tho gover
nor for interviews, and the Courier
charged that, in his desperation, ho in
tended to pardon Whalen, that ho
might have, in his campaign, the as
sistance of that skilled and unscrupu
lous manipulator. Tho pack of coun
try newspapers took up tho Courier’s
cry. Whalen's illness was either ig
nored, or referred to as feigned, at
tho direction of prison authorities and
rrcirornor Anri vnf !l PfirtiflP'ltA
pigeonholed in Gilman's desk, signed
by the prison physician, stated that
Thomas Whalen had pulmonary tuber
culosis and was in a moribund condi
tion.
In his office in the city William
Handy, the chairman of the state cen
tral committee, read these newspaper
stories, and swore as he did so. That
night the shrewdest and maddest pol
itician in the state stole out of town.
The next morning Gilman was sur
prised when the big man burst through
the door marked “private,” brushed
by him and entered, unannounced, the
governor’s chambers. Before the state
ly door swung to behind him, Gilman
heard him demand:
“What’s all this 1 hear about your
pardoning Tom Whalen?”
The private secretary did not hear
the governor’s reply, for with delib
erate step ho had crossed the room
and closed the door. Ho heard noth
ing clearly, for Handy’s voice came to
at all. Once he thought he heard
"mawkish sentiment,” and “the action
of a political imbecile,” but what ho
mostly distinguished was muffled pro
fanity. The young man for the first
time in his experience was delighted
when his bell buzzed just then. When
he entered upon the scene, the gover
nor, rocking complacently in his high
backed chair, was saying:
“But what if it’s my duty?”
“Duty be damned,” shouted Handy,
rising to his feet, and smiting the desk
with a heavy fist he had had folded
during the conversation. The wrath
which the politician had kept bottled
up overnight had burst out at last.
“I am running this campaign,” he
cried, “and as long as I do run it, I
do not propose to tolerate such in
credible folly as pardoning Tom Wha
len.”
The governor’s splendid frame
DtJClilCU Uf UliaiO, anu umuuu ouu
denly became conscious that the
admiration ho had always given
the man had never before meas
ured up to the fullness of John Chat
ham’s deserts. It was with relief that
he saw the governor’s glance turn
from Handy to bend on him.
“Gilman,” he said, “have a pardon
made out for Thomas Whalen.”
This answer to Handy’s threats was
punctuated by a Hash from the gover
nor’s eyes.
“And Gilnjanr-” the governor con
tinued.
“Yes, sir.”
“Wire that woman—what’s her
name?”
“Barry?"
"Yes—Barry—wire her to come. I
think I shall prefer to tell her my
self.”
Handy dropped, heavy with exhaus
tion, into his chair. He tried to speak,
but had trouble with his articulation.
When he mastered his tongue, he
could only blurt:
"Now you have done it, haven’t
you?”
“Yes,” said the governor In gentle
assent, “I have done it.” The sigh
that ended this remark was one in
which a heart-burdening care was dis
sipated. It was a sigh that resolved a
vast difficulty.
When the woman came the next
morning, Gilman led her at once into
the governor’s presence. Before him
lay a large document, lettered in pre
posterous script, lined in red ink. The
woman knew this imitation parchment
to be the pardon of Thomas Whalen.
The governor rose and stood until she
had seated herself, and then said,
drawing the pardon on the desk to
him, “I have decided to grant the ap
plication for Whalen's pardon.”
The woman’s fingers clawed the
carved arms of the chair. Gllmar
stared with parted lips.
Fiercely he wheeled on the woman*
"Do you see what he has done? He
has given up all—he has killed him
self! He says Whalen is innocent—
and doesn't even know upon whom to
fasten suspicion! Don’t you—my God,
woman—can’t you see?”
Slowly the situation was borne in
upon her understanding. Her mouth,
opened with a gasp, her eyes widened.
"Why!" she said, jerking her word*
from a choking throat. “He know*
who did it. I told him. It was me.’"
The door latch clicked behind her.
She turned in the direction whence
came the sound, and repeated, as If
the interrupter contradicted her:
“Yes, I did it I killed Brokoski.”
Ilor strength failed her. She sobbed
convulsively.
"Yes—I—did—it,” she repeated. “I
—did—It.”
Gilman stared in wonder. Here,
then, was tho person who had stood
in the alloy beneath tho window that
night, whose footprints would have led
him to tlie solution of his mystery, to
Hie end of his clever chain. The prob
lem of her motive for slaying Brokoski
alone remained. He longed to ask her,
but she had collapsed unconscious in
her chair. Turning to the governor ha
implored light. A word informed him
of the accidental killing of Brokoski
by a jealous woman who was trying
to shoot his vis-a-vis. Then ho de
manded in tones reproachful:
“Why did you not tell mo this?”
"Because," the man quietly respond
ed, "I do not war on women.”
Tlie door whose latch had clicked
had opened wide, and William Handy
entered, smiling.
Governor Chatham was assorting pa
pers on his desk, as a man would
whoso routine work had received a
trifling interruption. Handy remained
on his feet.
"John,” he said, "John, I take oil
my hat to you. I admiro your nerve.
I recognized it years ago, that day
you presided over our convention la
the old seventh district—remember?—
the day you turned mo down so hard.
Remember?”
Tin* governor smtlnrl
"Yes, John,” he persisted. “You’ra
a hell of a good fellow, but,” he added,
“you’re a damn poor politician.”
There was the faintest shadow of a
smile on the governor’s face, Haudy
closed his eyes until they were the
merest slits. II© puffed his cigar back
to life.
Ills head was wrapped in scarfs of
smoko.
“When does the grand jury eit?**
ho inquired, after a time.
“Not till the December term.”
“We can have a special one impanr
eled. I’ll have Donnelly call it.”
The governor looked at Handy.
“William,” he said, “you might as well
understand now, that that would be
wholly useless. I am convinced of
Whalen’s innocence absolutely, beyond
all doubt, but it will be impossible to
get a jury to convict the one winp did
kill Drokoski on such evidence aa
convinced me.”
“But she confesses,” urged Handy.
“To whom?”
“To you.”
“Exactly. But what if that confes
sion be a privileged communication?'*
Handy looked up in amazement.
“You don’t mean you wouldn’t testi
fy?”
The governor’s countenance lost ita
legal expression, and became suddenly
human. If Handy had been a thinner
man ho would havo jumped when the
governor said:
“Do you think I would send a wom
an to the penitentiary to elect myself
governor?"
“Are you sure confessions to a gov
ernor are privileges?” inquired Handy,
who was adhering to practical things.
The governor’s face put on its legal
mask again, and he replied:
“Well, the question is unsettled—”
“Who presides in the criminal court
this winter?” inquired Handy, “any of
our fellows?” Handy’s whole philoso
phy of life was pull. The governor
resumed, without answering:
((ml__xi_i___1_j_i j
x iiu nun uv i vx x/ve-xx uoviu*
ed. Mr. Chief Justice Marshall, upon
the trial of Aaron Burr, ruled, If I re
member, that a subpoena duces tecum
might be Issued to the president for a
letter addressed to him, leaving the
ouestion of the production of the let
ter—"
"Oh, say, John," broke in Handy.
"Burr’s.dead, isn’t he? And he wasn’t
a good fellow, anyway, or he’d never
got in that far. Go on with your legal
ities—I myself do not propose to go to
jail for contempt for refusing to testi
fy."
"You?"
“Yes, me.”
“What have you to do with it?”
“Oh, nothing much,” said Handy,
"only I happened to be inside that
door just now when she confessed—
and there’s Gilman besides." Handy,
his cigar tilted upward, smoked on
voluminously and smiled through the
smoke with deep satisfaction. The
governor averted his face. Lines of
trouble drew themselves across his
brow. Presently he turned to the
chairman.
“Handy,” he said, “I may be re
elected and I may not—probably not.
However that may be, I insist upon
this: I want that woman, for the pres
ent, let alone. I have faith in the peo
ple. I am willing to go to them on
my record. They may or may not re
elect me. I shall not, at any rate, have
my motives impugned. I only want,
when the turmoil has subsided, when
the subject can be viewed with clear
eyes and investigated by clear heads
and clean hands, to see justice done.”
"Oh,” said Handy, "to hell with Jus
tice.”
"Well then," asked the governor,
“what do you say to a little mercy
now and then?”