The Judge disappeared through a door; the clerk lifted the lid of his
desk and stowed beneath it the greasy, ragged Bible, stained with the
lies of a thousand lips. The buzzard crammed his hat over his eyes,
turned, and without a word to anyone, stalked out of the room.
I mingled with the motley throng, my ears alert for any spoken opinions.
I had seen the flying-belt thrown from the machine and the stoppage of
the engine. I wanted now to learn something of the hot breath of the
people who had set it in motion eleven months and ten days before.
"Reckon he'll cut a blue streak for home now," muttered a court-lounger,
buttoning up his coat; "that is, if he's got one. You'll never catch him
sellin' any more moonshine."
"Been me, I'd soaked him," blurted out a corner-loafer. "If you can't
convict one of these clay-eaters when you've got him dead to rights,
ain't no use havin' no justice."
"I thought Tom [the buzzard] would land him," said a stout,
gray-whiskered lawyer who was gathering up his papers.
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