The Judge leaned back in his chair, raised his hand impressively, and
said gravely:
"This case is adjourned until ten o'clock tomorrow."
Two days later I again met the Warden as he was entering the main door
of the jail. He had been over to the Court-house, he said, helping the
deputy along with a new "batch of moonshiners."
"What became of Bud Tilden?" I asked.
"Oh, he got it in the neck for robbin' the mails, just's I told you he
would. Peached on himself like a d---- fool and give everything dead
away. He left for Kansas this morning. Judge give him twenty years."
He is still in the lock-step at Leavenworth prison. He has kept it up
now for two years. His hair is short, his figure bent, his step
sluggish. The law is slowly making an animal of him--that wise,
righteous law which is no respecter of persons.
III
"ELEVEN MONTHS AND TEN DAYS"
It was a feeble old man of seventy-two this time who sat facing the
jury, an old man with bent back, scant gray hair, and wistful,
pleading eyes.
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