“D’you think I’ve nothin’ better to do than try your damned old window-busting cases?” he sneered.  “Who ever had the idea of indicting a boy for that sort of thing, anyhow?”

“That is no way to talk,” answered Mr. Asche with firmness.  “You’re paid to prosecute whatever cases are sent to you.  This is one of ’em.  There’s been too much delay.  Our president will be annoyed.”

“Oh, he will, will he?” retorted O’Brien, nevertheless, coming to the instant decision that he had best find some other excuse than mere disinclination.  “If he gets too shirty I’ll tell him the case came in here without any preparation and being in the nature of a private prosecution we’ve been waiting for you to earn your fee.  How’ll you like that, eh?”

Mr. Asche became discolored.

“H’m!” he replied softly.  “So that is it, is it?  You won’t have that excuse very long, even if you could get away with it now.  I’ll have a trial brief and affidavits from all the witnesses ready for you in forty-eight hours.”

“All right, old top!” nodded O’Brien carelessly.  “We always strive to please!”

So Mr. Asche got busy, while the very same day Mr. Hogan asked for and obtained another adjournment.

Some people resemble animals; others have a geometrical aspect.  In each class the similarity tends to indicate character.  The fox-faced man is apt to be sly, the triangular man is likely to be a lump.  So Mr. Asche, being rectilinear, was on the square; just as Mr. Hogan, being soft and round, was slippery and hard to hold.  Three days passed, during which Mrs. Mathusek grew haggard and desperate.  She was saving at the rate of two dollars a day, and at that rate she would be able to buy Tony a trial in five weeks more.  She had exhausted her possibilities as a borrower.  The indictment slept in O’Brien’s tin file.  Nobody but Tony, his mother and Hogan remembered that there was any such case, except Mr. Asche, who one afternoon appeared unexpectedly in the offices of Tutt & Tutt, the senior partner of which celebrated law firm happened to be advisory counsel to the Tornado Casualty Company.

“I just want you to look at these papers, Mr. Tutt,” Mr. Asche said, and his jaw looked squarer than ever.

Mr. Tutt was reclining as usual in his swivel chair, his feet crossed upon the top of his ancient mahogany desk.

“Take a stog!” he remarked without getting up, and indicating with the toe of one Congress-booted foot the box which lay open adjacent to the Code of Criminal Procedure.  “What’s your misery?”

“Hell’s at work!” returned Mr. Asche, solemnly handing over a sheaf of affidavits.  “I never smoke.”

Mr. Tutt somewhat reluctantly altered his position from the horizontal to the vertical and reached for a fresh stogy.  Then his eye caught the name of Raphael B. Hogan.

“What the devil is this?” he cried.

“It’s the devil himself!” answered Mr. Asche with sudden vehemence.