That's just
plain, ordinary selfishness. I suppose I really ought to jug you;
but if I do, I'll always carry with me the thought that I've taken
it on myself to judge a man. And I don't believe any man is
competent to judge another. I told you why--or tried to--a minute
or so ago. I've lived clean, and I've enjoyed the world as a clean
open-air sort of proposition--like a windy day--and I always hope
to. I'd rather drop this whole matter. In a short time I'd forget
you; you'd pass out of my life entirely. But if we carry this thing
through to a finish, I'd always have the thought with me that I'd
put you in the pen; that you are there now. I don't like the
notion. I'd rather finish this up right here and now and get it
over and done with and take a fresh start." He paused and wiped his
brow, wet with the unusual exertion of this self-analysis. "I think
a fellow ought to act always as if he was making the world. He
ought to try not to put things in it that are going to make it an
unpleasant or an evil world. We don't always do it; but we ought to
try. Now if I were making a world, I wouldn't put a man in a
penitentiary in it. Of course there's dangerous criminals." He
glanced at Newmark a little anxiously.
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