Chapter 4

There was, of course, no parade on the courthouse steps for the benefit of a wondering village, as there would have been had the day been fine. Instead, the men, steaming with wet, stood about uncomfortably in the corridors, muddy with the mud from their feet, wet with the drip from their umbrellas. The air in the court house was close, and every one felt uncomfortable and depressed.

Mr. Peaslee, having greeted three or four men whom he knew, found himself jammed into a corner behind four or five jurors who were strangers to him, but he was too disheartened to try to scrape acquaintance with them. He felt lonely and helpless.

He looked enviously over to the other end of the corridor, where Fred Farnsworth, Eben Sampson, and Albion Small were standing together. In contrast with the others, these men were laughing. Albion was "consid'able of a joker," Mr. Peaslee reflected gloomily.

Then old Abijah Keith stormed in, and in his high, shrill voice began immediately to utter his unfavorable opinion of everything and everybody.

"Well, if he ain't here again!" exclaimed, in disgust, Hiram Hopkins, one of the men in front of Solomon. "Cantankerest old lummux in the whole state--just lots on upsetting things. Abijah!" he snorted. "Can't Abijah, I call him!"

Mr. Peaslee shrank back into his corner nervously. He knew this old tyrant and dreaded him.

Not much was done that first day. The clerk swore them; the judge charged them, and appointed the sensible, steady Sampson foreman. Then they retired to the jury-room--a big, desolate place, wherein was a long, ink-spattered table surrounded by wooden armchairs and spittoons. The grand jurors seated themselves, and were solemnly silent while John Paige, the state's attorney, began the dull task of presenting cases. Mr. Peaslee found that he had nothing brilliant to say.

As a matter of fact, his own troubles were making him see everything yellow. The jurymen did not seem to him as agreeable a lot as he had expected, and as for Paige, he irritated Solomon beyond measure.

Paige was an able young man and a good lawyer, and was entitled to the position which he had attained so young; but, the son of a man of rather exceptional means, he had been educated at a city college, and had a sophistication which Solomon viewed with deep suspicion. Moreover, he discarded the garb which Mr. Peaslee regarded as sacred. He was not in black. Instead, he wore a light gray business suit, his collar was very knowing in cut, and his cravat of dark blue was caught with a gold pin.

"Citified smart Aleck," was Mr. Peaslee's characterization. To tell the truth, he mistrusted the man's ability, and was afraid of him. If that fellow knew, Mr. Peaslee felt that it would go hard with him. Generally, Paige was popular.

Solomon had, of course, been painfully awake to every hint and intimation in regard to Jim's case. He had seen Jake Hibbard, that carrion crow of the law, loafing about the corridors, and the sight had made him shiver. He had next heard that Jim's case would be quickly called,--probably on the next day,--news producing a complex emotion, the elements of which he could not distinguish. Furthermore, a remark or so which he overheard indicated that the out-of-town men were inclined to take a harsh view of the matter. And reflecting on all these things, he paddled home through the depressing wet.

And the next day it rained.

More and more perturbed, as the climax approached, Mr. Peaslee took his place in the jury-room, and sat there with unhearing ears. He sat and thought and delivered battle with his conscience, which was growing painfully vigorous and aggressive. But, after all, perhaps they would not find a true bill, and then Jim would go free, and he could breathe again. Mr. Peaslee clung to the hope, and hugged it. It was the one thing which gave him courage.

"Gentlemen of the grand jury," suddenly he heard Paige saying, "the next case for you to consider is that of James Edwards, aged fifteen, of Ellmington, charged with assault, with intent to kill, upon one Peter Lamoury, also of Ellmington."

And he proceeded to read the complaint, which, in spite of the monotonous rapidity with which he rattled it off, scared Mr. Peaslee badly with its solemn-sounding legal phraseology.

"Gentlemen," said Paige, laying down the paper, "there was no eyewitness to the actual assault; and only three people have any personal knowledge of the event--Mr. Edwards, the defendant's father, the accused himself, and the complainant. Mr. Lamoury, his counsel tells me, is in no condition to appear. But I have here," lifting a paper, "his affidavit, properly executed, giving his version of the matter. The boy's father, however, is at hand. Probably the jury would like to question him."

"It seems to me," said Mr. Sampson, "that Mr. Edwards would be pretty apt to know the rights of it, if he's willing to talk. I guess we'd better hear him."

The state's attorney stepped to the door.

"This way, please!" he called, and Mr. Edwards entered the room.

Farnsworth and Peaslee both studied the man's face closely, although for very different reasons, and both found it sternly uncompromising.

"Please take a chair, Mr. Edwards," said Paige, and in a swift glance rapidly estimated the man. "Here's some one who won't lie," he thought, impressed.

"Now," he resumed, "will you kindly tell the members of the grand jury what you know of the case?"

Mr. Edwards cleared his throat painfully. Determined as he was to let his rebellious boy take whatever punishment his mistaken course might bring, he now began to wish that the punishment would be light. His confidence that Jim needed only to be pushed a little to confess was somewhat shaken, and the charge was really serious. He felt a desire to explain, to palliate, to minimize.

"Gentlemen," he said, "my boy's always been a good boy. I can't believe that he meant to hurt Lamoury or any one else. It must have been some accident--"

"Facts, please," said Paige, crisply.

Mr. Peaslee caught his breath indignantly. He had been entirely in sympathy with Mr. Edwards's soft mode of approaching his story. Paige seemed to him unfeeling.

"I will answer any questions," said Mr. Edwards, stiffening.

"Did you hear any shot fired?" began Paige.

"Yes."

"Where were you?"

"I was asleep in the room above Jim's."

"Was Jim in his room?"

"I suppose so."

"You suppose so. Don't you know?"

"No, I don't know."

"But to the best of your knowledge and belief he was there?"

"Yes."

"And the shot waked you?"

"Yes."

"What did you do on hearing the shot?"

"I jumped to the window."

"Tell what you saw, please."

"I saw a man fall in the orchard, and hurried out to see if he was hurt. But he was gone when I got there."

"Then what?"

"I went to speak to Jim."

"He was in his room, then, immediately after the shot?"

"Yes."

"Ah! And when you spoke to him, did he admit firing the shot?"

"No."

"Did he deny it?"

"Yes."

"Where was his gun?"

"In the rack over the mantel."

"In the rack over the mantel," repeated Paige, slowly, glancing at the jurors. "Did you examine it?"

"Yes."

"What was its condition? Did it show that it had been fired?"

"No; it was clean."

"It was clean," repeated Paige. "I understand that it was a double-barreled, muzzle-loading shotgun. Were there any rags about?"

"Yes."

"Where were they?"

"One was in the ashes of the fireplace."

"Look as if some one had tried to hide it?"

"Yes"--reluctantly.

"If it was that sort of gun, there must have been a shot-pouch and powder-flask. Where were they?"

"In the drawer where Jim keeps them."

"Everything looked, then, as if no shot had been fired?"

"Yes."

"Was there any one besides yourself and your son in the house?"

"No."

"Your housekeeper?"

"She had stepped out."

"To the best of your knowledge, then, there was no one about to fire the shot except your son?"

"No."

"That will do," said Paige, with an accent of finality. "That is," he added, with the air of one who observes a courteous form, "unless some of the grand jurors wish to ask a question."

There were various things which were new to Mr. Peaslee in this testimony. He had supposed that Jim had been picked as the guilty person by a process of mere exclusion; he had had no idea that the case against him was so strong. How had the boy got to the room so soon after he himself had left, and why had he gone there? And why, why had he cleaned the shotgun? The grand jury must believe in his guilt. And when the case came to trial, what could Jim say to clear himself? It was going hard, hard with the boy.

Mr. Peaslee's mouth grew dry, his palms moist; he moved uneasily in his chair. Once or twice he felt sure that the next instant he would find himself on his feet, but the minutes passed and he still was seated.

And Farnsworth, anxious, for the sake of his betrothed, Miss Ware, to help Jim, was nonplussed. There were two possible explanations of Jim's cleaning the gun, if he did clean it: the first, that Jim was protecting himself; the second, that he was shielding some one else.

But the second theory seemed quite untenable. Farnsworth had made some cautious but well-directed inquiries about Mr. Edwards, and had satisfied himself that the rumors about his smuggling were nothing but malicious gossip. There was not a man of greater honesty in the state. The boy must have done the shooting. Miss Ware would have to give it up. Still, he would hazard a question.

"Mr. Edwards," he said, "Lamoury worked for you once, didn't he?"

"Yes."

"You quarreled, didn't you?"

"I discharged him for intemperance."

"There was no bad blood?"

"Lamoury was angry, I believe."

Farnsworth stopped; there was nothing to be gained by this course of questioning in the way of clearing Jim. Of course later, the point that Lamoury had a grudge against the family might have importance, although he could not see just how. Some one else surely heard that gunshot. It was incredible that the neighborhood should be so deserted. If only there were another witness!

The other jurors had no questions. They were, to tell the truth, a little impatient. It was near the dinner-hour, and they were hungry. The case seemed perfectly plain to them. It was not likely, they argued, that the boy's father could be mistaken.

"You may go," said Paige to Mr. Edwards.

"I don't see," he began, when the witness had left the room, "any need for our going further into this case. Whatever we may think of the animus of the complainant,--I take it that was what you wished to bring out, Mr. Farnsworth,--there seems to be no question but that the boy fired the shot. The presumption seems strong also that he intended to hit. Were there any accident or any good excuse, the boy could, of course, have no motive not to tell it. I suggest that a true bill be found at once, and that we proceed to more important matters. I want to remind you that we have a great deal of work before us."

"Well, gentlemen," said Sampson, "I guess we're pretty much of a mind about this. If no one has any objections, I guess we'll call it a vote." He looked round.

"As we're all agreed--" he began.

"Just a moment, Sampson!" suddenly exclaimed Farnsworth. It had just then flashed over him that Mr. Peaslee, the kind Mr. Peaslee, who gave Jim knives and harmonicas, was next-door neighbor to the Edwardses. If he had been at home when the shot was fired, he must have heard it, and he might have seen some significant thing which questioning might bring out. Of course, if Peaslee had seen anything, he would have spoken, but he might have overlooked the importance of some fact or other.

"Just a moment, Sampson!" he said, and put up his hand. Then he swung sharply in his chair and put the question:--

"Peaslee, where were you when that shot was fired?"

VI

"Peaslee, where were you when that shot was fired?" asked Farnsworth, and as he spoke he turned and looked toward Solomon, whose seat was some three or four places to his left, on the same side of the table.

Had the question not been uttered, it would have died upon his lips, so much surprised was he at what he saw.

Mr. Peaslee, white and trembling with some strong emotion, had his hands upon the table and was raising himself, slowly and painfully, to his feet. He rolled his eyes, which looked bigger and more pathetic than ever behind his glasses, toward Farnsworth at the sound of his voice, but the young man knew instinctively that Solomon, moved by some strong idea of his own, had not grasped the question.

"Gentlemen," Mr. Peaslee began, in shaky tones, "I guess I got a word to say afore ye find a true bill agin that little feller. He's as peaceable a boy as ever I saw, and I guess I can't let him stay all bolted and barred into no jail, when it don't need anythin' but my say-so to get him out. Ye see, gentlemen,"--Solomon paused, moistened his dry mouth, and cast a timorous look over the puzzled faces of the jurymen,--"ye see, 't was me that shot Lamoury."

Not a sound came from the grand jury; the members sat and stared at him in blank wonder, hardly able to credit their ears. Paige, the state's attorney, who was making some notes at the time, held his pen for a good half-minute part way between his paper and the inkstand while he gazed in astonishment at Peaslee. To have a grand juror, a sober, respectable man, rise in the jury-room and confess that he is the real offender in a case under consideration, is not usual. The surprise was absolute.

For Farnsworth, it was more than a surprise; it was a relief. Then his betrothed had been right; Jim had not fired the shot! He felt a glow of admiration for Nancy's sure intuition and loyalty to her pupil. He rejoiced that Jim was cleared for her sake and for the boy's. Insensibly he had grown more and more interested in Jim and attached to him. Now--everything was explained.

Everything? No, Jim's strange activity in concealing the evidences of the shot, his queer reserve when questioned as to what he knew--these seemed more perplexing than ever.

Farnsworth, hoping for light upon these points, settled back in his chair to listen. Mr. Peaslee had more to say.

"It kinder goes agin the grain," Solomon resumed, with a weary, deprecatory smile, "to own up you've been actin' like a fool, but I guess I got to do it.

"This was the way on 't: I stepped over to Ed'ards's jest to talk over matters and things. Well, I couldn't seem to raise anybody to the front of the house, so I kinder slid into the boy's room to see if there wasn't somebody out back. There wa'n't. There didn't seem to be anybody to home.

"Now, gentlemen, seems as though you'd see how 't was when I tell ye. There's an old white and yaller cat, with a kinder sassy patch over her eye,"--Mr. Peaslee's meek voice here took on a trace of heat,--"that's been a-pesterin' the life out o' me goin' on a year. I guess ye know how 't is--one of them pesky, yowlin', chicken-stealin', rusty old nuisances that hain't any sociability to 'em, anyhow.

"Well, there she was a-settin', comfortable as a hot punkin pie, and lookin' as if she owned the place. And there was the boy's gun right there handy. The cat riled me so, I jest loaded her up. 'T wa'n't in human natur' not to, now was it? 'T wa'n't nothin' but bird shot, so I sorter stuck in a marble. It couldn't do no harm, and it might kinder help a leetle. And I just fired her off. I didn't expect to hit any French Canadian; I didn't know there was any of the critters round.

"Then when I see a feller fall out of the bushes I was scared, now I tell ye. Here I was, member of the grand jury, and everything, and it didn't somehow seem right and fittin' for no member of the grand jury to be fillin' up a feller human bein' with bird shot an' marbles. I guess I didn't think much what I was a-doin' of, no-how. 'T any rate, I jest sneaked off home, and then I jest let things slip along and slide along till here I be. I guess if a true bill's got to be found agin any one, it's got to be found agin me."

And Mr. Peaslee sank huddled and hopeless into his chair.

His fellow members were for a moment silent. But soon this tale of a cat, bird shot, and an unexpected Canadian began to disclose a comic aspect; the plight of poor, respectable Mr. Peaslee, in all the fresh honors of his jurorship, began to show a ludicrous side; their own position as grave men seeing what they thought a serious offense change, as by magic, into a farcical accident, bit by bit revealed its humor.

Sampson, the foreman, glanced at Paige, the state's attorney. The young man's face wore an odd expression. Their eyes met, and Sampson's mouth began to twitch. Albion Small, who was "consid'able of a joker," suddenly choked. Farnsworth, having revealed to him in a flash the significance of the harmonica "with harp attachment," gave way and laughed outright.

Smiles appeared on faces all round the table; and as the comicality of the whole affair more and more struck upon their astonished minds, the smiles became a general laugh, the laugh a roar. And this mirth had so good-humored a note that Solomon, taking heart, looked about the table with a sheepish grin.

But his heart sank and his grin vanished when his eyes fell upon Abijah Keith. For Abijah did not smile. He sat grim as fate, stern disapproval of all this levity expressed in every deep fold of his wrinkled old countenance.

A formidable person was Abijah. He had a great brush of white hair, which stood up fiercely from his narrow forehead; a high, arched nose like the beak of a hawk, on which rested a pair of huge round spectacles; a mouth like a straight line inclosed between a great parenthesis of leathery wrinkles. Up from under his old-fashioned stock, round a chin like a paving-stone, curled an aggressive, white, wiry beard, and his blue eyes were steel-bright and hard.

"Can't see what you're cackling so for!" he exclaimed, his shrill accents full of contempt. "Actin' like a passel of hens! There's a man shot, ain't they? Somebody shot him, didn't they? He"--and Abijah pointed a knotted, skinny, hard old finger at the shrinking Solomon--"he shot him, didn't he? Ser'us business, _I_ call it. Guess the grand jury's got suthin' to say to it, hain't they? Cat? Cat's foot, _I_ say. Likely story, likely story. Don't believe a word on 't."

Solomon dared to steal a look, and was not reassured to see in the jurymen's faces doubt replacing mirth. Then Hiram Hopkins's hearty voice, ringing with opposition, struck upon his delighted ear. He remembered Hiram's dislike for the cantankerous Keith. Here perhaps was a defender.

"Oh, come, Mr. Keith! Oh, come now!" he heard Hopkins exclaim. "What's the use of raising a rumpus? It wasn't nothing but bird shot. Folks don't go murdering folks with bird shot."

"Don't care if 't was bird shot!" came Abijah's snapping tones. "Don't care if 't was pin-heads; principle's the same."

"It is, it is!" admitted Solomon, in his soul.

"Well," said Hiram, with a common sense in which Mr. Peaslee took comfort, "the practical effect is mighty different. Gentlemen," he added to the jurors, "I can't see that we've got any call to go any further with this. Peaslee was just shooting at a cat. I don't see the sense of taking up the time of the court and makin' expense for any such foolishness. I say we'd better dismiss young Edwards's case, and Peaslee's along with it. It's such fool doings, I think we'd better, if only to keep folks from laughing at the grand jury."

Solomon's heart was in his mouth. Would the others take this view--or Keith's?

"Oily talk, dretful oily talk!" came Abijah's fierce pipe. "Don't take any stock in 't. Shot him, didn't he? Grand juror--what difference does that make? If they ain't fit, weed 'em out--weed 'em out!"

"Fit?" said Hiram. "It took some spunk to get up there and tell just what a fool he'd been, didn't--"

"Humph!" Abijah interrupted, with a snort. "Had to, didn't he? Farnsworth asked him where he was, didn't he? Had to squirm out somehow, didn't he? Got about as much spine as a taller candle with the wick drawed out, accordin' to his own showin'. Better weed him out, better weed him out! Humph!"

Poor Mr. Peaslee sank still lower in his chair; his head fell still lower on his chest. They were taking away from him even the credit of voluntary confession. Why had Farnsworth asked that question? In casting doubt upon his one brave deed fate seemed to him to have done its worst.

"He'd got up before I put the question," said Farnsworth.

He wished to be just. But he was indignant with Peaslee. After his first laughter, his thoughts had dwelt upon the trouble that Solomon had brought upon the innocent Jim, "just to save his own hide, the old--skee-zicks!" he exclaimed to himself.

After all, what did he know about Peaslee? If the man had merely shot at a cat, why under the sun should he not have said so at once, and saved all this bother? The more he thought, the more indignant he grew--and the more doubtful. He did not notice at all the look of timid gratitude which Mr. Peaslee cast in his direction.

"Course he was up before you spoke!" Solomon was further gratified to hear Hopkins declare, in his big, hearty voice. "And I think a man who owns up fair and square just when it's hardest to has got spine enough to hold him together, anyhow."

"Up before ye asked him!" Abijah turned on Farnsworth. "Up for what? Tell me that, will ye?"

And Solomon, listening anxiously for Farnsworth's answer, was depressed to hear him give merely a good-humored laugh at Uncle Abijah's thrust.

"Mr. Peaslee," asked Sampson, so unexpectedly that Solomon jumped, "didn't you say something about a marble?"

"Yes," said Mr. Peaslee, gloomily.

"Fit the bore, did it?" continued the foreman.

"Slick," answered Mr. Peaslee, with the brevity of despair.

"If that marble fitted the bore," said Albion Small, while Sampson nodded assent, "it's my opinion it might do considerable damage."

His opinion had weight, for Small was a hunter of repute. Recovered from their amusement, the grand jurors had become gradually impressed with the idea that Mr. Peaslee's confession still left some awkward questions unanswered. If the matter were so simple as he said, why had he kept silent so long?

The jurymen came from all over the rather large county, and although they all had some knowledge of the principal men of Ellmington, and although such of them as had dealings at its bank had met Mr. Peaslee, none of them knew him well. He was a newcomer at the village, and when at his farm had not had a wide acquaintance.

They looked to Farnsworth as his fellow townsman to speak for him; but Farnsworth said nothing, and seemed preoccupied and doubtful. The inference was that he shared their perplexity. They felt that Keith, for all his "cantankerousness," might be right. Solomon could draw no comfort from their faces.

All this while Paige had been playing with his watch-chain and watching Abijah, whose character he appreciated, with discreet amusement; but he found himself in essential agreement with the peppery old fellow.

"Ask the state's attorney, why don't ye?" put in Keith, impatiently. "He'll tell ye I've got the rights on 't. Ain't afraid, be ye?"

Sampson smiled. "Mr. State's Attorney," he said, turning to Paige, "I guess perhaps you'd better give us the law of this."

"Well, gentlemen," said Paige, "as a matter of law, Mr. Keith would seem to be right," and at the word Solomon's spirits sank to new depths.

"Didn't I tell ye?" said Abijah, triumphantly.

Had the state's attorney said that he was wrong, the old man would have called him a popinjay to his face. Abijah's exclamation was not deference to legal knowledge; it was merely quick seizure of a tactical point.