The Argosy, September 1915 — page 223: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE BLINDNESS OF JUSTICE. tive of a State is supposed to give to the commonwealth’s weighty problems. However, the Governor did not want to give the problem at hand any consid- eration, weighty or otherwise. He wanted to forget it—to drive it eritirely from his mind. ‘That was the reason why the bottle had come out so many times and also the reason why it was so nearly empty. In the corridor that led to the Gov- ernor’s office an old and_ shabbily dressed woman was holding to the wall for support, weeping as only a heart- broken mother weeps. She had just made her last ineffectual appeal for the boy who was to go to the electric chair that day and give his life to the State, that the law might be vindicated and the standards of society upheld. And the Governor was shaken—so shaken in fact that he had sought again to drive from his mind the memory of the old woman’s face and the sound of her sobs. Creeping into his consciousness at intervals was a vision of the youth being led from the death-house to the chair. The chaplain was reading a prayer. The youth’s face was chalky white; his knees were trembling so that two guards must support him. The Governor had never seen any one go to his death that way, but he had read the details and had visited the prison. He knew every step of the way. Now they were strapping him in the chair. The hood had been adjusted. Pitifully the youth had tried to mumble a prayer, but his ashen lips only shook and the words would not come. The warden was raising his hand— There was a blinding crash, as if the Governor were in hell and a mil- lion devils were fighting fora chance to tear out his nerves while he still quivered between life and death. Then finally came peace. For the Governor had fainted and was lying with his head lolling over an arm sprawled across the desk in front of him. He must have lain that way 437 for several minutes when conscious- ness finally returned. He shuddered, groped at the arms of his chair for sup- port, and ground his teeth in an effort to become master of himself again. Then his hand flew to his watch. He noted the hour just as he noted it scores of times during the passing day. , “No; they haven’t done it yet,” he said to himself. “‘ Not yet. He’s still alive; but Heaven, think how he must suffer! Three hours more and he'll pay the penalty,” Joe Blossom was just an ordinary kind of a youth. His age, as it hap- pened, was a little past twenty-two. One might have found his counterpart in Seattle or New York, Chicago or New Orleans, Minneapolis or Mem- phis. There was nothing inherently bad in him, but there -was something in- herently weak. He was one of those boys who become attached toa tough gang because they will fetch and carry; because they will do what they are told and be proud of having rendered even such a small service for their leader. And it is often the case that these weaker brothers become what the gang calls “ the goat,” while those whose in- tellects are keener escape when the strong arm of the law reaches out and tries to grasp them. Also they are more. likely to fall into the clutches of the law when the’ newspapers, vying with each other to see which can carry the biggest “crime-wave”’ story, de- mand that the police clean up the city and give decent, hard-working folk a chance to walk the streets without fear of life and property. Joe’s father had died when he was little. What followed was the old fa- miliar story of the mother who works when she can find work; who works because she needs must do so to pro- vide even the semblance of food and clothing for herself and little one, By day Joe existed with a neighboring EO PMICLOOOKS (E@)