The group about his
body, not being a sympathetic group, were insisting that the engine
could do no wrong; that the victim was not a victim at all, but lawful
material to be ground up. This theory was sustained by the District
Attorney. Every day he must have fresh materials. The engine must run.
The machinery must be fed.
And his record?
Ah, how often is this so in the law!--his record must be kept good.
* * * * *
After the whiskey had been held up to the light and the dime fingered,
the old man's attorney--a young lawyer from the old man's own town, a
smooth-faced young fellow who had the gentle look of a hospital nurse
and who was doing his best to bring the broken body back to life and
freedom--put the victim on the stand.
"Tell the jury exactly how it all happened," he said, "and in your own
way, just as you told it to me."
"I'll try, sir; I'll do my best." It was Rip's voice, only fainter. He
tugged at his collar as if to breathe the easier, cleared his throat and
began again.
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