A lean, cadaverous, painfully thin old man in answer to his name rose to
his feet and edged his way through the crowd to the witness-chair. He
was an inch taller than his son, though only half his weight, and was
dressed in a suit of cheap cloth of the fashion of long ago, the coat
too small for him, even for his shrunken shoulders, and the sleeves
reaching only to his wrists. As he took his seat, drawing in his long
legs toward his chair, his knee-bones, under the strain, seemed to be on
the point of coming through his trousers. His shoulders were bowed, the
incurve of his thin stomach following the line of his back. As he
settled back in his chair he passed his hand nervously over his mouth,
as if his lips were dry.
Cartwright's manner to this witness was the manner of a lackey who hangs
on every syllable that falls from his master's lips.
"At what time, Mr. Tilden, did your son Bud reach your house on the
night of the robbery?"
The old man cleared his throat and said, as if weighing each word:
"At ten minutes past ten o'clock.
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