Why do
you blame _me_? What more can _I_ do? What more could you do? What more
could any decent man do? And if you wanted to find out how things are run
here, you're doing it."
"What's the trouble?" asked Truesdale. He sat down with an engaging
disposition to show himself interested.
Marshall passed his hand feebly over his forehead. "It's that police
affair of your mother's," he said, in a tired voice.
"Well, I hope those two scamps have been sent to jail, or to Bridewell,
or wherever they belong. August will carry that scar to his dying day."
"Jail!" cried Roger. "No ward-worker need ever go to jail. They sent for
their alderman the minute they were caught. Our ward hasn't elected
anything but crime-brokers for the last ten years."
"Well, what did the present crime-broker do?"
"He went bail for them. He made out the bond himself--inside of thirty
seconds. He marked it so on the envelope, and the police-captain took it
for what he called it. So when these fellows jumped their bail--"
"Our alderman lost--his autograph. A bad take-in for the police, wasn't
it?" queried Truesdale, impartially.
"Take-in!" cried Roger. "It's easy enough to be taken in if you want to
be taken in--if you lend yourself to being taken in!"
His father gave a long sigh and dropped a helpless hand on his desk.
Truesdale looked into vacancy and gave a long, low whistle.
"And there you have it!" ended Roger. "You have lifted off the cover and
looked in.
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