Book IV: Chapter VI

by Sherwood Anderson

　　The clearing of Andrew Brown made a sensation in Chicago. At the trialMcGregor was able to introduce one of those breath-taking dramaticclimaxes that catch the attention of the mob. At the tense dramaticmoment of the trial a frightened hush fell upon the court room andthat evening in their houses men turned instinctively from the readingof the papers to look at their beloved sitting about them. A chill offear ran over the bodies of women. For a moment Beaut McGregor hadgiven them a peep under the crust of civilisation that awoke an age-old trembling in their hearts. In his fervour and impatience McGregorhad cried out, not against the incidental enemies of Brown but againstall modern society and its formlessness. To the listeners it seemedthat he shook mankind by the throat and that by the power andpurposefulness of his own solitary figure he revealed the pitifulweakness of his fellows.

　　In the court room McGregor had sat, grim and silent, letting the Statebuild up its case. In his face was a challenge. His eyes looked outfrom beneath swollen eyelids. For weeks he had been as tireless as abloodhound running through the First Ward and building his case.Policemen had seen him emerge from alleyways at three in the morning,the soft spoken boss hearing of his activities had eagerly questionedHenry Hunt, a bartender in a dive on Polk Street had felt the grip ofa hand at his throat and a trembling girl of the town had knelt beforehim in a little dark room begging protection from his wrath. In thecourt room he sat waiting and watching.

　　When the special counsel for the State, a man of great name in thecourts, had finished his insistent persistent cry for the blood of thesilent unemotional Brown, McGregor acted. Springing to his feet heshouted hoarsely across the silent court room to a large woman sittingamong the witnesses. "They have tricked you Mary," he roared. "Thetale about the pardon after the excitement dies is a lie. They'restringing you. They're going to hang Andy Brown. Get up there and tellthe naked truth or his blood be on your hands."

　　A furor arose in the crowded court room. Lawyers sprang to their feet,objecting, protesting. Above the noise arose a hoarse accusing voice."Keep Polk Street Mary and every woman from her place in here," heshouted. "They know who killed your man. Put them back there on thestand. They'll tell. Look at them. The truth is coming out of them."

　　The clamour in the room subsided. The silent red-haired attorney, thejoke of the case, had scored. Walking in the streets at night thewords of Edith Carson had come back into his brain, and with the helpof Margaret Ormsby he had been able to follow a clue given by hersuggestion.

　　"Find out if your man Brown has a sweetheart."

　　In a moment he saw the message the women of the underworld, patrons ofO'Toole's, had been trying to convey to him. Polk Street Mary was thesweetheart of Andy Brown. Now in the silent court room the voice of awoman arose broken with sobs. To the listening crowd in the packedlittle room came the story of the tragedy in the darkened house beforewhich stood the policeman idly swinging his night stick--the story ofa girl from an Illinois village procured and sold to the broker's son--of the desperate struggle in the little room between the eagerlustful man and the frightened brave-hearted girl--of the blow withthe chair in the hands of the girl that brought death to the man--ofthe women of the house trembling on the stairs and the body hastilypitched into the passageway.

　　"They told me they would get Andy off when this blew over," wailed thewoman.

　　* * * * *McGregor went out of the court room into the street. The glow ofvictory was on him and he strode along with his heart beating high.His way led over a bridge into the North Side and in his wanderings hepassed the apple warehouse where he had made his start in the city andwhere he had fought with the German. When night came he walked inNorth Clark Street and heard the newsboys shouting of his victory.Before him danced a new vision, a vision of himself as a big figure inthe city. Within himself he felt the power to stand forth among men,to outwit them and outfight them, to get for himself power and placein the world.

　　The miner's son was half drunk with the new sense of achievement thatswept in on him. Out of Clark Street he went and walked east along aresidence street to the lake. By the lake he saw a street of greathouses surrounded by gardens and the thought came that at some time hemight have such a house of his own. The disorderly clatter of modernlife seemed very far away. When he came to the lake he stood in thedarkness thinking of the useless rowdy of the mining town suddenlybecome a great lawyer in the city and the blood ran swiftly throughhis body. "I am to be one of the victors, one of the few who emerge,"he whispered to himself and with a jump of the heart thought also ofMargaret Ormsby looking at him with her fine questioning eyes as hestood before the men in the court room and by the force of hispersonality pushed his way through a fog of lies to victory and truth.