You don’t realize how clear the matter is to unprejudiced minds. Though I’m such an unpractical man, I have evidence to rest my claims
“The more the better, if you are going to depend on such a windbag as Bright. If you go to law, I’d like to see you win your case.”
St. Peter said good night, went down the stairs, and out through the dark pine-trees.
Evidence, Crane said; probably letters Tom had written him during the winter he was working at Johns Hopkins. Well, there was nothing to be done, unless he could get old Dr. Hutchins to persuade Crane to employ an intelligent lawyer. Homer Bright’s rhetoric might influence a jury in a rape or bigamy case, but it would antagonize a judge in an equity court.
The Professor took a turn in the park before going home. The interview had depressed him, and he was afraid he might be wakeful.
He had never seen his colleague in such an unbecoming light before. Crane was narrow, but he was straight; a man you could count on in the shifty game of college politics. He had never been out to get anything for himself.
St. Peter would have said that nothing about the vulgar success of Outland’s idea could possibly matter to Crane, beyond gratifying his pride as a teacher and friend.
The park was deserted. The arc-lights were turned off. The leafless trees stood quite motionless in the light of the clear stars. The world was sad to St. Peter as he looked about him; the lake-shore country flat and heavy, Hamilton small and tight and airless. The university, his new house, his old house, everything around him, seemed insupportable, as the boat on which he is imprisoned seems to a seasick man.