You'll let me go home, won't you, men? I git so tired,
so tired; please let me go."
[Illustration: "I git so tired, so tired; please let me go."]
The buzzard was on his feet now, his arms sawing the air, his strident
voice filling the courtroom.
He pleaded for the machine--for the safety of the community, for the
majesty of the law. He demanded instant conviction for this trickster,
this Fagin among men, this hoary-headed old scoundrel who had insulted
the intelligence of twelve of the most upright men he had ever seen in a
jury-box, insulted them with a tale that even a child would laugh at.
When at last he folded his wings, hunched up his shoulders and sat down,
and the echoes of his harsh voice had died away, it seemed to me that I
could hear vibrating through the room, as one hears the murmur of a
brook after a storm, the tender tones of the old man pleading as if
for his life.
The jury had listened to the buzzard's harangue, with their eyes, not
with their ears. Down in their hearts there still rang the piteous
words.
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