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. Andrews, "he's with _me_."
They entered the court and passed down an aisle to a railed enclosure in
which were high oak chairs. Again, in his effort to follow, Mr.
Thorndike was halted, but the first tipstaff came to his rescue. "All
right," he signalled, "he's with Mr. Andrews."

Mr. Andrews pointed to one of the oak chairs. "You sit there," he
commanded, "it's reserved for members of the bar, but it's all right.
You're with _me_."

Distinctly annoyed, slightly bewildered, the banker sank between the