wing them what I
really think of them, Number 43 should get it.

"On the other hand, I'm supposed to be a model of fairness. That's why I
got the job in the first place. Remember, Ronar? Come on, let's go in
and try tasting them again. Eat a mouthful of each cake, much as you
hate the stuff. Choose the best on its merits."

* * * * *

They were babbling when he walked in, but the babbling stopped quickly.
The chairman said, "Are we ready, Mr. Ronar?"

"All ready."

The three cakes were placed before him. Slowly he took a mouthful of
Number 17. Slowly he chewed it and swallowed it. Number 43 followed,
then Number 64.

After the third mouthful, he stood lost in thought. One was practically
as good as another. He could still choose which he pleased.

The assemblage had quieted down. Only the people most concerned
whispered nervously.

Mrs. Cabanis, to her psychologist husband: "If I don't win, it'll be
your fault. I'll pay you back for this."

The good doctor's fault? Yes, you could figure it that way if you wanted
to. If not for Dr. Cabanis, Ronar wouldn't be the judge. If Ronar
weren't the judge, Mrs. C. would win, she thought. Hence it was all her
husband's fault. Q.E.D.

The male baker to his wife: "If he gives the prize to me, I'll brain
him. I should never have entered this."

"It's too late to worry now."

"I could yell 'Fire'," he whispered hopefully. "I could create a panic
that would empty the hall. And then I'd destroy my cake."

"Don't be foolish. And stop whispering."

The young post-honeymooning husband: "You're going to win, dear; I can
feel it in my bones."

"Oh, Greg, please don't try to fool me. I've resigned myself to losing."

"You won't lose."

"I'm afraid. Put your arm around me, Greg. Hold me tight. Will you still
love me if I lose?"

"Mmmm." He kissed her shoulder. "You know, I didn't fall in love with
you for your cooking, sweetheart. You don't have to bake any cakes for
me. You're good enough to eat yourself."

"He's right," thought Ronar, as he stared at her. "The man's right. Not
in the way he means, but he's right." And suddenly, for one second of
decision, Ronar's entire past seemed to flash through his mind.

The young bride never knew why she won first prize.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Model of a Judge, by William Morrison

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MODEL OF A JUDGE ***

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