. .
He came to himself in a police cell, locked up on a charge of assault,
seditious cries, and anarchist propaganda.
He looked at me fixedly with his liquid, shining eyes, that seemed very
big in the dim light.
"That was bad. But even then I might have got off somehow, perhaps," he
said, slowly.
I doubt it. But whatever chance he had was done away with by a young
socialist lawyer who volunteered to undertake his defence. In vain he
assured him that he was no anarchist; that he was a quiet, respectable
mechanic, only too anxious to work ten hours per day at his trade. He
was represented at the trial as the victim of society and his drunken
shoutings as the expression of infinite suffering. The young lawyer had
his way to make, and this case was just what he wanted for a start. The
speech for the defence was pronounced magnificent.
The poor fellow paused, swallowed, and brought out the statement:
"I got the maximum penalty applicable to a first offence."
I made an appropriate murmur. He hung his head and folded his arms.
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