The seating of the Judge was the signal for the admission of the crowd
in the corridor, who filed in through the door, some forgetting to
remove their hats, others passing the doorkeeper in a defiant way. Each
man, as soon as his eyes became accustomed to the glare from the
windows, looked furtively toward the prisoners' box. Bud Tilden was
already in his seat between the two deputies, his hands unshackled, his
blue eyes searching the Judge's face, his big slouch hat on the floor at
his feet. What was yet in store for him would drop from the lips of
this face.
The crier of the court, a young negro, made his announcements.
I found a seat between the prisoner and the bench, so that I could hear
and see the better. The Government prosecutor occupied a seat at a table
to my right, between me and the three staring Gothic windows. When he
rose from his chair his body came in silhouette against their light.
With his goat-beard, beak-nose, heavy eyebrows, long, black hair
resting on the back of his coat-collar, bent body, loose-jointed arms,
his coat-tails swaying about his thin legs, he looked (I did not see him
in any other light) like a hungry buzzard flapping his wings before
taking flight.
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