" And we
were confident that we could win; we knew that we were right.
One evening after dinner, when we were sitting in the dingy little back
room on Champa Street that served us as an office, A. M.
Stevenson--"Big Steve"--politician and attorney for the Denver City
Tramway Company, came shouldering in to see us--a heavy-jowled,
heavy-waisted, red-faced bulk of good-humour--looking as if he had just
walked out of a political cartoon. "Hello, boys," he said jovially.
"How's she going? Making a record for yourselves up in court, eh?
Making a record for yourselves. Well!"
He sat down and threw a foot up on the desk and smiled at us, with his
inevitable cigarette in his mouth--his ridiculously inadequate
cigarette. (When he puffed it, he looked like a fat boy blowing
bubbles.) "Wearing yourselves out, eh? Working night and day? Ain't
you getting about tired of it?"
"We got eleven to one each time," I said. "We'll win yet."
"Uh-huh. You will, eh?" He laughed amusedly. "One man stood out
against you each time, wasn't there?"
There was.
"Well," he said, "there always will be. You ain't going to get a
verdict in this case.
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