DISTRICT-ATTORNEY WICKSON
his mind of something that had long been burdening it, "what's the use of prosecuting this man Sotjie? He's not to blame. The town has to have a crooked chief of police, and they'll always get some one who'll do what Sotjie did. And if we could reach old Bradford and the 'higher-ups' what would be the use of prosecuting them? As long as these public utilities are lying around loose, waiting for some one to steal them, they'll be stolen. It's a whole community that's been to blame. You can't prosecute a whole community. And prosecuting a man like Sotjie is like prosecuting a man for having typhoid fever—when he got it drinking from a city tap!"
Collins looked worried.
"Of course, I have to prosecute. Just as you have to get evidence. That's what I'm paid for. That's what I'm here for. And if they shoot me for it Bradford and the rest will be the first to sign a testimonial to my good character—so that they sha'n't be suspected of any lack of public spirit." He laughed rather despairingly. "It's funny, isn't it?" He sat down. "God! I'm tired of it!" he said.
The "Bradford" to whom he referred was the great William D. Bradford, the financial "boss" of the town, owner of the street railway, the gas company, the most successful newspaper, one of the banks, and two of the trust companies.
Collins mused behind a mask of mild vacuity.
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