Tell the jury right away"--and
he faced the prisoner--"what you know about this glass of whiskey. Get
right down to the facts; we're not cutting cross-ties in this court."
The old man caught his breath, placed his fingers suddenly to his lips
as if to choke back the forbidden words, and, in an apologetic
voice, murmured:
"I'm gettin' there's fast's I kin, sir, 'deed I am; I ain't hidin'
nothin'."
He wasn't. Anyone could see it in his face.
"Better let him go on in his own way," remarked the Judge,
indifferently. His Honor was looking over some papers, and the
monotonous tones of the witness diverted attention. Most of the jury,
too, had already lost interest in the story. One of the younger members
had settled himself in his chair, thrust his hands into his pockets,
stretched out his legs, and had shut his eyes as if to take a nap.
Nothing so far had implicated either the whiskey or the dime; when it
did he would wake up.
The old man turned a grateful glance toward the Judge, leaned forward in
his chair, and with bent head looked about him on the floor as if trying
to pick up the lost end of his story.
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