The bag was then put in evidence and hung over
the back of a chair, mouth down, the gash in its bottom in full view of
the jury. This gash, from where I sat, looked like one inflicted on an
old-fashioned rubber football by a high kicker.
Hank Halliday, in a deerskin waistcoat and dust-stained slouch hat,
which he crumpled up in his hand and held under his chin, was the
next witness.
In a jerky, strained voice he told of his mailing a letter, from a
village within a short distance of Bug Hollow, to a girl friend of his
on the afternoon of the night of the robbery. He swore positively that
this letter was in this same mail-bag, because he had handed it to the
carrier himself before he got on his horse, and added, with equal
positiveness, that it had never reached its destination. The value or
purpose of this last testimony, the non-receipt of the letter, was not
clear to me, except upon the theory that the charge of robbery might
fail if it could be proved by the defence that no letter was missing.
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