DISTRICT-ATTORNEY WICKSON
"For trying to can Sotjie. They have a man out to shoot me."
Arnett took his pipe from his teeth as if to put aside his jocular air with it. "What's up? Do you mean it?"
Wickson nodded, smiling.
"Who's doing it?"
"Well—Sotjie, first of all. And then—the men who have helped to make Sotjie what he is, including Bradford. And then—all of us who have allowed conditions to become what they are in this town. You, for instance. You never vote, do you?"
"Murder? You mean murder?"
"No. The man 'll be drunk. It's a fellow I sent up three years ago, and he has that grievance. It 'll only be manslaughter."
Arnett stared at him. "Are you growing fanciful?"
"You'd think so, wouldn't you?"
"Oh, pshaw, Wick! I don't believe it."
Wickson laughed. "I knew you wouldn't. That's why I told you." He began to gather up the papers from his desk. "The devil of it is I don't want to prosecute Sotjie—I don't feel that he's been to blame—but conditions make it necessary. And I don't suppose he wants to shoot me—if he could avoid it. It's a gay life. Will you walk over to the court with me?"
Arnett rose silently, dropped his pipe into his
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