Marshall listened to his remarks and indicated an unremitted attention by
bowing now and then with a subdued gravity. The strain seemed familiar;
where had he heard it before? Why, from Susan Bates, to be sure--and in
this very place: strophe and antistrophe. Could it be possible that he
was so remiss towards himself and towards the community? Could it be true
that he was doing himself such scant and graceless justice? What answer
had he to make to this new advocate? The old one--with additions.
"I have been thinking about these matters. I have been considering the
public that so much is asked for. It is not the old public I used to know
twenty years ago--it has changed a good deal. It is better organized
against us--a banding together of petty officials with their whole
contemptible following: steerage-rats that have left their noisome holds
to swarm into our houses, over them, through them, everywhere--between
the floors, behind the wainscoting--everywhere. Do you know anything
about cheap law?"
"Justice courts? Don't let's go into that," said Bingham, quickly.
"I _am_ in that," retorted Marshall, angrily. His blue eyes took on an
unwonted gleam. "And I shall stay in until I have satisfied myself."
"Drop it," said Bingham. "It's a terrible thing--rotten, deplorable, an
out-and-out curse."
"I will not," returned Marshall. He struck his thin old hand on the edge
of his desk. "I'll see it through. They live within two blocks of my
house.
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