TROTTER. Then he's a damned thief!
[_He sits on the bench with the manner that he has settled the subject._
WARDEN. So he is, and he's ruined.
TROTTER. Well, prison is the place for _him_.
WARDEN. We won't argue that, but how about his family--they get punished
for what he has done; they must share his disgrace.
TROTTER. Oh, well, my wife is out of all that now--_she's Mrs. Trotter_.
WARDEN. Yes, but _her own daughter_ suffers.
TROTTER. [_On the defensive._] She isn't very chummy with her classy
eldest daughter.
WARDEN. Never mind that; you know without my telling you that Mrs.
Sterling is a fine woman.
TROTTER. She's always snubbed me right and left, but, by George, I must
own she is a fine woman.
WARDEN. That's right! [_Clapping him on the back and putting his arm
around his shoulder._] Look here--help us save her!
TROTTER. How?
WARDEN. Indorse a note of Sterling's to give Ryder to keep him quiet.
TROTTER. I'd have to ask my wife.
WARDEN. No! Don't start off like that! Keep the reins in your own hands
at the very beginning,--make her realize from this very day that you're
raised up on the cushion beside her; that she's sitting lower down
admiring the scenery, while you do the driving through life!
TROTTER.
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