the son… junior…"
And the next instant he was out of the enclosure and gripping Dusty's hand.
"Glad to see you, Rhodes, Bill… No, I bet they call you Dusty, don't they? Come on in."
Dusty hung back. Or tried to. "I – it's nothing important, Mr. Kossmeyer. I can come back some other-"
"Nonsense." The attorney propelled him through the throng. "Been hoping you'd drop in. Let's see, you're over at the Manton, right? Nice people. Done a little work for them myself. How's your father? How you like this weather? What…?"
Talking, rapidly, answering his own questions, he ushered Dusty into his office and slammed the door.
Except for the bookcases, the room was practically as barren as the one outside. Kossmeyer waved Dusty to a chair, and perched on the desk in front of him.
"Glad you came in," he repeated. "Wanted to ask you, but I knew you worked nights. How about a drink? You look kind of tired."
"Thanks. I don't drink," Dusty said.
"Yeah? Well I was saying – I'm damned glad you came in. I got a pretty good idea how you feel, Dusty. We've been on this thing about a year now, and we seem to be getting nowhere fast. Your father still out of a job. You stuck with a lot of expenses. You're asking yourself, what the hell, and I don't blame-"
"About that" – Dusty cleared his throat. "About the expenses, Mr. Kossmeyer. I'm afraid I can't – I mean, it seems to me that-"
"Sure." The little man nodded vigorously. "They've been high. Just the costs alone on a deal like this can hit a guy pretty hard. I-" he paused. "You know that's all we've taken, don't you? Just the actual expense of filing briefs and serving papers, and so on."
"Well, no," Dusty said. "I didn't know it. But-"
"But it's still too much," Kossmeyer interrupted. "Anything's too much when it ain't buying anything. But that's just the way it looks to you, y'know, Dusty? It's just the way it looks from the outside. Actually, we're making a lot of headway. We've been pouring in the nickels, and now we're just about to hit the jackpot. I-"
"Mr. Kossmeyer," said Dusty, "I want you to drop the case."
"Huh-uh. No, you don't," the lawyer said. "You just think you do. Like I've been telling you, kid, we're just about to pick up the marbles. Give me two or three more months, and-"
"It won't do any good if Dad does win. He's not going to be able to go back to his job. He's not – well, he's just not himself any more."
"Who the hell is?" Kossmeyer shrugged. "But I know what you mean, Dusty. I've seen him myself, y'know. This knocked the props out from under him, and he's still going around in a daze. I'd say the best way to snap him out of it is to-"
"He's not physically well either. He's-"
"Sure, he's not," Kossmeyer agreed. "A man's sick, he's sick all over."
"I want you to drop it," Dusty said stubbornly. "Winning the case won't really change anything. People will go right on thinking that – what they've been thinking. It would be impossible for him to work."
"Yeah, but, kid…" Kossmeyer paused, a puzzled frown on his small, sharp-featured face. "Let me see if I got you right, Dusty. We're supposed to have free speech in this country; it's guaranteed by the constitution. So a man does something in support of that guarantee, and a bunch of know-nothings and professional patriots do a job on him. He's right and they're as wrong as teeth in a turkey, but he's supposed to take it. Just crawl in a hole and stay there. Don't give 'em no trouble, so they can go on and do the same kind of job on another guy. Is that what you mean?"
"I'm sorry," Dusty said doggedly. "I can't help it that things are the way they are. It's not right, of course, but-"
"I think you're low-pricing your dad," Kossmeyer said. "He thought enough of this issue to go to bat on it. I don't see him running for the dugout just because they're tossing pop bottles. If he gets his job back – when he gets it back, I should say – he won't let 'em smoke him out. He'll be right in
And the next instant he was out of the enclosure and gripping Dusty's hand.
"Glad to see you, Rhodes, Bill… No, I bet they call you Dusty, don't they? Come on in."
Dusty hung back. Or tried to. "I – it's nothing important, Mr. Kossmeyer. I can come back some other-"
"Nonsense." The attorney propelled him through the throng. "Been hoping you'd drop in. Let's see, you're over at the Manton, right? Nice people. Done a little work for them myself. How's your father? How you like this weather? What…?"
Talking, rapidly, answering his own questions, he ushered Dusty into his office and slammed the door.
Except for the bookcases, the room was practically as barren as the one outside. Kossmeyer waved Dusty to a chair, and perched on the desk in front of him.
"Glad you came in," he repeated. "Wanted to ask you, but I knew you worked nights. How about a drink? You look kind of tired."
"Thanks. I don't drink," Dusty said.
"Yeah? Well I was saying – I'm damned glad you came in. I got a pretty good idea how you feel, Dusty. We've been on this thing about a year now, and we seem to be getting nowhere fast. Your father still out of a job. You stuck with a lot of expenses. You're asking yourself, what the hell, and I don't blame-"
"About that" – Dusty cleared his throat. "About the expenses, Mr. Kossmeyer. I'm afraid I can't – I mean, it seems to me that-"
"Sure." The little man nodded vigorously. "They've been high. Just the costs alone on a deal like this can hit a guy pretty hard. I-" he paused. "You know that's all we've taken, don't you? Just the actual expense of filing briefs and serving papers, and so on."
"Well, no," Dusty said. "I didn't know it. But-"
"But it's still too much," Kossmeyer interrupted. "Anything's too much when it ain't buying anything. But that's just the way it looks to you, y'know, Dusty? It's just the way it looks from the outside. Actually, we're making a lot of headway. We've been pouring in the nickels, and now we're just about to hit the jackpot. I-"
"Mr. Kossmeyer," said Dusty, "I want you to drop the case."
"Huh-uh. No, you don't," the lawyer said. "You just think you do. Like I've been telling you, kid, we're just about to pick up the marbles. Give me two or three more months, and-"
"It won't do any good if Dad does win. He's not going to be able to go back to his job. He's not – well, he's just not himself any more."
"Who the hell is?" Kossmeyer shrugged. "But I know what you mean, Dusty. I've seen him myself, y'know. This knocked the props out from under him, and he's still going around in a daze. I'd say the best way to snap him out of it is to-"
"He's not physically well either. He's-"
"Sure, he's not," Kossmeyer agreed. "A man's sick, he's sick all over."
"I want you to drop it," Dusty said stubbornly. "Winning the case won't really change anything. People will go right on thinking that – what they've been thinking. It would be impossible for him to work."
"Yeah, but, kid…" Kossmeyer paused, a puzzled frown on his small, sharp-featured face. "Let me see if I got you right, Dusty. We're supposed to have free speech in this country; it's guaranteed by the constitution. So a man does something in support of that guarantee, and a bunch of know-nothings and professional patriots do a job on him. He's right and they're as wrong as teeth in a turkey, but he's supposed to take it. Just crawl in a hole and stay there. Don't give 'em no trouble, so they can go on and do the same kind of job on another guy. Is that what you mean?"
"I'm sorry," Dusty said doggedly. "I can't help it that things are the way they are. It's not right, of course, but-"
"I think you're low-pricing your dad," Kossmeyer said. "He thought enough of this issue to go to bat on it. I don't see him running for the dugout just because they're tossing pop bottles. If he gets his job back – when he gets it back, I should say – he won't let 'em smoke him out. He'll be right in
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