And thus, in the careful scrutiny of small things, relating to the habits, life, and manner of dressing of the two young men,–matters about which nobody raised any question, and in which no one except the examiner took any interest,–more days crept by, until, at last, the main witnesses for the State were reached.
CHAPTER XXXVI
NELS NELSON’S TESTIMONY
The day was very warm, and the jury sat without their coats. The audience, who had had time to debate and argue the question over and over, were all there ready to throng in at the opening of the doors, and sat listening, eager, anxious, and perspiring. Some were strongly for the young man and some were as determined for the Elder’s views, and a tension of interest and friction of minds pervaded the very atmosphere of the court room. It had been the effort of Milton Hibbard to work up the sentiment of those who had been so eagerly following the trial, in favor of his client’s cause, before bringing on the final coup of the testimony of the Swede, and, last of all, that of Betty Ballard.
Poor little Betty, never for a moment doubting her perception in her recognition of Peter Junior, yet fearing those doubting ones in the court room, sat at home, quivering with the thought that the truth she must tell when at last her turn came might be the one straw added to the burden of evidence piled up to convict an innocent man. Wordlessly and continually in her heart she was praying that Richard might know and come to them, calling him, calling him, in her thoughts ceaselessly imploring help, patience, delay, anything that might hold events still until Richard could reach them, for deep in her heart of faith she knew he would come. Wherever in all the universe he might be, her cry must find him and bring him. He would feel it in his soul and fly to them.
Bertrand brought Betty and her mother news of the proceedings, from day to day, and always as he sat in the court room watching the prisoner and the Elder, looking from one set face to the other, he tried to convince himself that Mary and Betty were right in their firm belief that it was none other than Peter Junior who sat there with that steadfast look and the unvarying statement that he was the Elder’s son, and had returned to give himself up for the murder of his cousin Richard, in the firm belief that he had left him dead on the river bluff.
G. B. Stiles sat at the Elder’s side, and when Nels Nelson was brought in and sworn, he glanced across at Milton Hibbard with an expression of satisfaction and settled himself back to watch the triumph of his cause and the enjoyment of the assurance of the ten thousand dollars. He had coached the Swede and felt sure he would give his testimony with unwavering clearness.
The Elder’s face worked and his hands clutched hard on the arms of his chair. It was then that Bertrand Ballard, watching him with sorrowful glances, lost all doubt that the prisoner was in truth what he claimed to be, for, under the tension of strong feeling, the milder lines of the younger man’s face assumed a set power of will,–immovable,–implacable,–until the force within him seemed to mold the whole contour of his face into a youthful image of that of the man who refused even to look at him.
Every eye in the court room was fixed on the Swede as he took his place before the court and was bade to look on the prisoner. Throughout his whole testimony he never varied from his first statement. It was always the same.
“Do you know the prisoner?”
“Yas, I know heem. Dot is heem, I seen heem two, t’ree times.”
“When did you see him first?”
“By Ballards’ I seen heem first–he vas horse ridin’ dot time. It vas nobody home by Ballards’ dot time. Eferybody vas gone off by dot peek-neek.”
“At that time did the prisoner speak to you?”
“Yas, he asket me where is Ballards’ folks, und I tol’ heem by peek-neek, und he asket me where is it for a peek-neek is dey gone, und I tol’ heem by Carter’s woods by der river, und he asket me is Mees Betty gone by dem yet or is she home, und I tol’ heem yas she is gone mit, und he is off like der vind on hees horse already.”
“When did you see the prisoner next?”
“By Ballards’ yard dot time.”
“What time?”
“It vas Sunday morning I seen heem, talkin’ mit her.”
“With whom was he talking?”
“Oh, he talk mit Ballards’ girl–Mees Betty. Down by der spring house I seen heem go, und he kiss her plenty–I seen heem.”
“You are sure it was the prisoner you saw? You are sure it was not Peter Craigmile, Jr.?”
“Sure it vas heem I saw. Craikmile’s son, he vas lame, und valk by der crutch all time. No, it vas dot man dere I saw.”
“Where were you when you saw him?”
“I vas by my room vere I sleep. It vas a wine growin’ by der vindow up, so dey nefer see me, bot I seen dem all right. I seen heem kiss her und I seen her tell heem go vay, und push heem off, und she cry plenty.”
“Did you hear what he said to her?”
Bertrand Ballard looked up at the examiner angrily, and counsel for the prisoner objected to the question, but the judge allowed it to pass unchallenged, on the ground that it was a question pertaining to the motive for the deed of which the prisoner was accused.
“Yas, I hear it a little. Dey vas come up und stand dere by de vindow under, und I hear dem talkin’. She cry, und say she vas sorry he vas kiss her like dot, und he say he is goin’ vay, und dot is vot for he done it, und he don’t come back no more, und she cry some more.”
“Did he say anything against his cousin at that time?”
“No, he don’ say not’ing, only yust he say, ‘dot’s all right bouts heem,’ he say, ‘Peter Junior goot man all right, only he goin’ vay all same.’”
“Was that the last time you saw the prisoner?”
“No, I seen heem dot day und it vas efening.”
“Where were you when you saw him next?”
“I vas goin’ ’long mit der calf to eat it grass dere by Ballards’ yard, und he vas goin’ ’long mit hees cousin, Craikmile’s son, und he vas walkin’ slow for hees cousin, he don’ got hees crutch dot day, he valk mit dot stick dere, und he don’ go putty quvick mit it.” Nels pointed to the heavy blackthorn stick lying on the table before the jury.
“Were the two young men talking together?”
“No, dey don’ speak much. I hear it he say, ‘It iss better you valk by my arm a little yet, Peter,’ und Craikmile’s son, he say, ‘You go vay mit your arm, I got no need by it,’ like he vas little mad yet.”
“You say you saw him in the morning with Miss Ballard. Where were the family at that time?”
“Oh, dey vas gone by der church already.”
“And in the evening where were they?”
“Oh, dey vas by der house und eat supper den.”
“Did you see the prisoner again that day?”
“No, I didn’ see heem dot day no more, bot dot next day I seen heem–goot I seen heem.”
Harry King here asked his counsel to object to his allowing the witness to continually assert that the man he saw was the prisoner.
“He does not know that it was I. He is mistaken as are you all.” And Nathan Goodbody leaped to his feet.
“I object on behalf of my client to the assumption throughout this whole examination, that the man whom the witness claims to have seen was the prisoner. No proof to that effect has yet been brought forward.”
The witness was then required to give his reasons for his assertion that the prisoner was the man he saw three years before.
“By what marks do you know him? Why is he not the man he claims to be, the son of the plaintiff?”
“Oh, I know heem all right. Meester Craikmile’s son, he vos more white in de face. Hees hair vas more–more–I don’ know how you call dot–crooked on hees head yet.” Nels put his hand to his head and caught one of his straight, pale gold locks, and twisted it about. “It vas goin round so,–und it vas more lighter yet as dot man here, und hees face vas more lighter too, und he valked mit stick all time und he don’ go long mit hees head up,–red in hees face like dis man here und dark in hees face too. Craikmile’s son go all time limpin’ so.” Nels took a step to illustrate the limp of Peter Junior when he had seen him last.
“Do you see any other points of difference? Were the young men the same height?”
“Yas, dey vas yust so high like each other, but not so vide out yet. Dis man he iss vider yet as Meester Craikmile’s son, he iss got more chest like von goot horse–Oh, I know by men yust de same like horses vat iss der difference yet.”
“Now you tell the court just what you saw the next day. At what time of the day was it?”
“It vas by der night I seen heem.”
“On Monday night?”
“Yas.”
“Late Monday night?”
“No, not so late, bot it vas dark already.”
“Tell the court exactly where you saw him, when you saw him, and with whom you saw him, and what you heard said.”
“It vas by Ballards’ I seen heem. I vas comin’ home und it vas dark already yust like I tol’ you, und I seen dot man come along by Ballards’ house und stand by der door–long time I seen heem stan’ dere, und I yust go by der little trees under, und vatching vat it is for doin’ dere, dot man? Und I seen heem it iss der young man vat iss come dot day askin’ vere iss Ballards’ folks, und so I yust wait und look a little out, und I vatchin’ heem. Und I seen heem stand und vaitin’ minute by der door outside, und I get me low under dem little small flowers bushes Ballards is got by der door under dot vindow dere, und I seen heem, he goin’ in, and yust dere is Mees Betty sittin’, und he go quvick down on hees knees, und dere she yump lak she is scairt. Den she take heem hees head in her hands und she asket heem vat for is it dat blud he got it on hees head, und so he say it is by fightin’ he is got it, und she say vy for is he fightin’, und he say mit hees cousin he fight, und hees cousin he hit heem so, und she asket heem vy for is hees cousin hit heem, und vy for iss he fightin’ mit hees cousin any vay, und den dey bot is cryin’. So I seen dot–und den she go by der kitchen und bring vater und vash heem hees head und tie clots round it so nice, und dere dey is talkin’, und he tol’ her he done it.”
“What did he tell her he had done?”
“Oh, he say he keel heem hees cousin. Dot vat I tol’ you he done it.”
“How did he say he killed him?”
The silence in the court room was painful in its intensity. The Elder leaned forward and listened with contorted face, and the prisoner held his breath. A pallor overspread his face and his hands were clenched.
“Oh, he say he push heem in der rifer ofer, und he do it all right for he liket to do it, but he say he goin’ run vay for dot.”
“You mean to say that he said he intended to push him over? That he tried to do it?”
“Oh, yas, he say he liket to push heem ofer, und he liket to do dot, but he sorry any vay he done it, und he runnin’ vay for dot.”
“Tell the court what happened then.”
“Den she get him somedings to eat, und dey sit dere, und dey talk, und dey cry plenty, und she is feel putty bad, und he is feel putty bad, too. Und so–he go out und shut dot door, und he valkin’ down der pat’, und she yust come out der door, und run to heem und asket heem vere he is goin’ und if he tell her somedings vere he go, und he say no, he tell her not’ing yet. Und den she say maybe he is not keel heem any vay, bot yust t’inkin’ he keel him, und he tol’ her yas, he keel heem all right, he push heem ofer und he is dead already, und so he kiss her some more, und she is cry some more, und I t’ink he is cry, too, bot dot is all. He done it all right. Und he is gone off den, und she is gone in her house, und I don’t see more no.”
As the witness ceased speaking Mr. Hibbard turned to counsel for the prisoner and said: “Cross-examine.”
Rising in his place, and advancing a few steps toward the witness, the young lawyer began his cross-examination. His task did not call for the easy nonchalance of his more experienced adversary, who had the advantage of knowing in advance just what his witness would testify. It was for him to lead a stubborn and unwilling witness through the mazes of a well-prepared story, to unravel, if possible, some of its well-planned knots and convince the jury if he could that the witness was not reliable and his testimony untrustworthy.
But this required a master in the art of cross-examination, and a master begins the study of his subject–the witness–before the trial. In subtle ways with which experience has made him familiar, he studies his man, his life, his character, his habits, his strength, his weakness, his foibles. He divines when he will hesitate, when he will stumble, and he is ready to pounce upon him and force his hesitation into an attempt at concealment, his stumble into a fall.
It is no discredit to Nathan Goodbody that he lacked the skill and cunning of an astute cross-examiner. Unlike poets, they are made, not born, and he found the Swede to be a difficult witness to handle to his purpose. He succeeded in doing little more than to get him to reaffirm the damaging testimony he had already given.
Being thus baffled, he determined to bring in here a point which he had been reserving to use later, should Milton Hibbard decide to take up the question of Peter Junior’s lameness. As this did not seem to be imminent, and the testimony of Nels Nelson had been so convincing, he wished of all things to delay the calling of the next witness until he could gain time, and carry the jury with him. Should Betty Ballard be called to the stand that day he felt his cause would be lost. Therefore, in the moment’s pause following the close of his cross-examination of the last witness, he turned and addressed the court.
“May it please the Court. Knowing that there is but one more witness to be called, and that the testimony of that witness can bring forward no new light on this matter, I have excellent reason to desire at this time to move the Court to bring in the verdict of not guilty.”
At these words the eyes of every one in the court room were turned upon the speaker, and the silence was such that his next words, though uttered in a low voice, were distinctly heard by all present.
“This motion is based upon the fact that the State has failed to prove the corpus delicti, upon the law, which is clear, that without such proof there can be no conviction of the crime of murder. If the testimony of the witness Nels Nelson can be accepted as the admission of the man Richard Kildene, until the State can prove the corpus delicti, no proof can be brought that it is the admission of the prisoner at the bar. I say that until such proof can be brought by the State, no further testimony can convict the prisoner at the bar. If it please the Court, the authorities are clear that the fact that a murder has been committed cannot be established by proof of the admissions, even of the prisoner himself that he has committed the crime. There must be direct proof of death as by finding and identification of the body of the one supposed to be murdered. I have some authorities here which I would like to read to your honor if you will hear them.”
The face of the judge during this statement of the prisoner’s counsel was full of serious interest. He leaned forward with his elbow on the desk before him, and with his hand held behind his ear, intent to catch every word. As counsel closed the judge glanced at the clock hanging on the wall and said:–
“It is about time to close. You may pass up your authorities, and I will take occasion to examine them before the court opens in the morning. If counsel on the other side have any authorities, I will be pleased to have them also.”
CHAPTER XXXVII
THE STRANGER’S ARRIVAL
On taking his seat at the opening of court the next morning, the judge at once announced his decision.
“I have given such thought as I have been able to the question raised by counsel last evening, and have examined authorities cited by him, and others, bearing upon the question, and have reached the conclusion that his motion must be overruled. It is true that a conviction for murder cannot rest alone upon the extra-judicial admission of the accused. And in the present case I must remind the court and the jury that thus far the identity of the prisoner has not yet been established, as it is not determined whether or not he is the man whom the witness, Nels Nelson, heard make the admission. It is true there must be distinct proof, sufficient to satisfy the jury, beyond a reasonable doubt, that homicide has been committed by some one, before the admission of the accused that he did the act can be considered. But I think that fact can be established by circumstantial evidence, as well as any other fact in the case, and I shall so charge the jury. I will give you an exception. Mr Nathan Goodbody, you may go on with your defense after the hearing of the next witness, which is now in order.”2
The decision of the court was both a great surprise and a disappointment to the defendant’s young counsel. Considering the fact that the body of the man supposed to have been murdered had never been found, and that his death had been assumed from his sudden disappearance, and the finding of his personal articles scattered on the river bluff, together with the broken edge of the bluff and the traces of some object having been thrown down the precipice at that point, and the fact that the State was relying upon the testimony of the eavesdropping Swede to prove confession by the prisoner, he still had not been prepared for the testimony of this witness that he had heard the accused say that he had killed his cousin, and that it had been his intention to kill him. He was dismayed, but he had not entirely lost confidence in his legal defense, even now that the judge had ruled against him. There was still the Supreme Court.
He quickly determined that he would shift his attack from the court, where he had been for the time repulsed, and endeavor to convince the jury that the fact that Peter Junior was really dead had not “been proven beyond a reasonable doubt.”
Applying to the court for a short recess to give him time to consult with his client, he used the time so given in going over with the prisoner the situation in which the failure of his legal defense had left them. He had hoped to arrest the trial on the point he had made so as to eliminate entirely the hearing of further testimony,–that of Betty Ballard,–and also to avoid the necessity of having his client sworn, which last was inevitable if Betty’s testimony was taken.
He had never been able to rid himself of the impression left upon his mind when first he heard the story from his client’s lips, that there was in it an element of coincidence–too like dramatic fiction, or that if taken ideally, it was above the average juryman’s head.
He admonished the prisoner that when he should be called upon for his testimony, he must make as little as possible of the fact of their each being scarred on the hip, and scarred on the head, the two cousins dramatically marked alike, and that he must in no way allude to his having seen Betty Ballard in the prison alone.
“That was a horrible mistake. You must cut it out of your testimony unless they force it. Avoid it. And you must make the jury see that your return was a matter of–of–well, conscience–and so forth.”
“I must tell the truth. That is all that I can do,” said the prisoner, wearily. “The judge is looking this way,–shall we–”
Nathan Goodbody rose quickly. “If the court please, we are ready to proceed.”
Then at last Betty Ballard was called to the witness stand. The hour had come for which all the village had waited, and the fame of the trial had spread beyond the village, and all who had known the boys in their childhood and in their young manhood, and those who had been their companions in arms–men from their own regiment–were there. The matter had been discussed among them more or less heatedly and now the court room could not hold the crowds that thronged its doors.
At this time, unknown to any of the actors in the drama, three strangers, having made their way through the crowd outside the door, were allowed to enter, and stood together in the far corner of the court room unnoticed by the throng, intently watching and listening. They had arrived from the opposite sides of the earth, and had met at the village hotel. Larry had spied the younger man first, and, scarcely knowing what he was doing, or why, he walked up to him, and spoke, involuntarily holding out his hand to him.
“Tell me who you are,” he said, ere Richard could surmise what was happening.
“My name is Kildene,” said Richard, frankly. “Have you any reason for wishing to know me?”
For the moment he thought his interlocutor might be a detective, or one who wished to verify a suspicion. Having but that moment arrived, and knowing nothing of the trial which was going on, he could think only of his reason for his return to Leauvite, and was glad to make an end of incognito and sorrowful durance, and wearisome suspense, and he did not hesitate, nor try any art of concealment. He looked directly into Larry’s eyes, almost defiantly for an instant, then seeing in that rugged face a kindly glint of the eye and a quiver about the mouth, his heart lightened and he grasped eagerly the hand held out to him.
“Perhaps you will tell me whom you are? I suppose I ought to know, but I’ve been away from here a long time.”
Then the older man’s hand fell a-trembling in his, and did not release him, but rather clung to him as if he had had a shock.
“Come over here and sit beside me a moment, young man–I–I’ve–I’m not feeling as strong as I look. I–I’ve a thing to tell you. Sit down–sit down. We are alone? Yes. Every one’s gone to the trial. I’m on here from the West myself to attend it.”
“The trial! What trial?”
“You’ve heard nothing of it? I was thinking maybe you were also–were drawn here–you’ve but just come?”
“I’ve been here long enough to engage a room–which I shan’t want long. No, I’ve come for no trial exactly–maybe it might come to that–? What have you to tell me?”
But Larry Kildene sat silent for a time before replying. An eager joy had seized him, and a strange reticence held his tongue tied, a fear of making himself known to this son whom he had never seen since he had held him in his arms, a weak, wailing infant, thinking only of his own loss. This dignified, stalwart young man, so pleasant to look upon–no wonder the joy of his heart was a terrible joy, a hungering, longing joy akin to pain! How should he make himself known? In what words? A thousand thoughts crowded upon him. From Betty’s letter he knew something of the contention now going on in the court room, and from the landlord last evening he had heard more, and he was impatient to get to the trial.
Now this encounter with his own son,–the only one who could set all right,–and who yet did not know of the happenings which so imperatively required his presence in the court room, set Larry Kildene’s thoughts stammering and tripping over each other in such a confusion of haste, and with it all the shyness before the great fact of his unconfessed fatherhood, so overwhelmed him, that for once his facile Irish nature did not help him. He was at a loss for words, strangely abashed before this gentle-voiced, frank-faced, altogether likable son of his. So he temporized and beat about the bush, and did not touch first on that which was nearest his heart.
“Yes, yes. I’ve a thing to tell you. You came here to be at a–a–trial–did you say, or intimate it might be? If–if–you’ll tell me a bit more, I maybe can help you–for I’ve seen a good bit of the world. It’s a strange trial going on here now–I’ve come to hear.”
“Tell me something about it,” said Richard, humoring the older man’s deliberation in arriving at his point.
“It’s little I know yet. I’ve come to learn, for I’m interested in the young man they’re trying to convict. He’s a sort of a relative of mine. I wish to see fair play. Why are you here? Have you done anything–what have you done?”
The young man moved restlessly. He was confused by the suddenness of the question, which Larry’s manner deprived of any suggestion of rudeness.
“Did I intimate I had done anything?” He laughed. “I’m come to make a statement to the proper ones–when I find them. I’ll go over now and hear a bit of this trial, since you mention it.”
He spoke sadly and wearily, but he felt no resentment at the older man’s inquisitiveness. Larry’s face expressed too much kindliness to make resentment possible, but Richard was ill at ease to be talking thus intimately with a stranger who had but just chanced upon him. He rose to leave.
“Don’t go. Don’t go yet. Wait a bit–God, man! Wait! I’ve a thing to tell you.” Larry leaned forward, and his face worked and tears glistened in his eyes as he looked keenly up into his son’s face. “You’re a beautiful lad–a man–I’m–You’re strong and fine–I’m ashamed to tell it you–ashamed I’ve never looked on you since then–until now. I should have given all up and found you. Forgive me. Boy!–I’m your father–your father!” He rose and stood looking levelly in his son’s eyes, holding out both shaking hands. Richard took them in his and held them–but could not speak.
The constraint of witnesses was not upon them, for they were quite alone on the piazza, but the emotion of each of them was beyond words. Richard swallowed, and waited, and then with no word they both sat down and drew their chairs closer together. The simple act helped them.
“I’ve been nigh on to a lifetime longing for you, lad.”
“And I for you, father.”
“That’s the name I’ve been hungering to hear–”
“And I to speak–” Still they looked in each other’s eyes. “And we have a great deal to tell each other! I’m almost sorry–that–that–that I’ve found you at last–for to do my duty will be harder now. I had no one to care–particularly before–unless–”
“Unless a lass, maybe?”
“One I’ve been loving and true to–but long ago given up–we won’t speak of her. We’ll have to talk a great deal, and there’s so little time! I must–must give myself up, father, to the law.”
“Couldn’t you put it off a bit, lad?”
Larry could not have told why he kept silent so long in regard to the truth of the trial. It might have been a vague liking to watch the workings of his son’s real self and a desire to test him to the full. From a hint dropped in Betty’s letter he guessed shrewdly at the truth of the situation. He knew now that Richard and his young friend of the mountain top were actuated by the same motives, and he understood at last why Harry King would never accept his offer of help, nor would ever call him father. Because he could not take the place of the son, of whom, as he thought, he had robbed the man who so freely offered him friendship–and more than friendship. At last Larry understood why Peter Junior had never yielded to his advances. It was honor, and the test had been severe.
“Put it off a little? I might–I’m tempted–just to get acquainted with my father–but I might be arrested, and I would prefer not to be. I know I’ve been wanted for three years and over–it has taken me that long to learn that only the truth can make a man free,–and now I would rather give myself up, than to be taken–”
“I’m knowing maybe more of the matter than you think–so we’ll drop it. We must have a long talk later–but tell me now in a few words what you can.”
Then, drawn by the older man’s gentle, magnetic sympathy, Richard unlocked his heart and told all of his life that could be crowded in those few short minutes,–of his boyhood’s longings for a father of his own–of his young manhood’s love, of his flight, and a little of his later life. “We’d be great chums, now, father,–if–if it weren’t for this–that hangs over me.”
Then Larry could stand it no longer. He sprang up and clapped Richard on the shoulder. “Come, lad, come! We’ll go to this trial together. Do you know who’s being tried? No. They’ll have to get this off before they can take another on. I’m thinking you’ll find your case none so bad as it seems to you now. First there’s a thing I must do. My brother-in-law’s in trouble–but it is his own fault–still I’m a mind to help him out. He’s a fine hater, that brother-in-law of mine, but he’s tried to do a father’s part in the past by you–and done it well, while I’ve been soured. In the gladness of my heart I’ll help him out–I’d made up my mind to do it before I left my mountain. Your father’s a rich man, boy–with money in store for you–I say it in modesty, but he who reared you has been my enemy. Now I’m going to his bank, and there I’ll make a deposit that will save it from ruin.”
He stood a moment chuckling, with both hands thrust deep in his pockets. “We’ll go to that trial–it’s over an affair of his, and he’s fair in the wrong. We’ll go and watch his discomfiture–and we’ll see him writhe. We’ll see him carry things his own way–the only way he can ever see–and then we’ll watch him–man, we’ll watch him–Oh, my boy, my boy! I doubt it’s wrong for me to exult over his chagrin, but that’s what I’m going for now. It was the other way before I met you, but the finding of you has given me a light heart, and I’ll watch that brother-in-law’s set-down with right good will.”
He told Richard about Amalia, and asked him to wait until he fetched her, as he wished her to accompany them, but still he said nothing to him about his cousin Peter. He found Amalia descending the long flight of stairs, dressed to go out, and knew she had been awaiting him for the last half hour. Now he led her into the little parlor, while Richard paced up and down the piazza, and there, where she could see him as he passed the window to and fro, Larry told her what had come to him, and even found time to moralize over it, in his gladness.
“That’s it. A man makes up his mind to do what’s right regardless of all consequences or his prejudices, or what not,–and from that moment all begins to grow clear, and he sees right–and things come right. Now look at the man! He’s a fine lad, no? They’re both fine lads–but this one’s mine. Look at him I say. Things are to come right for him, and all through his making up his mind to come back here and stand to his guns. The same way with Harry King. I’ve told you the contention–and at last you know who he is–but mind you, no word yet to my son. I’ll tell him as we walk along. I’m to stop at the bank first, and if we tell him too soon, he’ll be for going to the courthouse straight. The landlord tells me there’s danger of a run on the bank to-morrow and the only reason it hasn’t come to-day is that the bank’s been closed all the morning for the trial. I’m thinking that was policy, for whoever heard of a bank’s being closed in the morning for a trial–or anything short of a death or a holiday?”