This Fragment, a variant of the George Harrison story, was probably written in the summer of 1899. The story is presented “from the outside” in that the reader is not given George Harrison’s thoughts as in “Which Was It?” Both the name of the squire—Baldwin rather than Brewster or Fairfax—and the time of the initial action—July rather than November—show that this is a quite early draft.
It was a Saturday afternoon, in summer. About a mile outside the village four roads met. It was not the first time; they had always done it, as far back as the oldest resident of the region could remember; and so, if any one was ever surprised at it you could know him for a stranger by that sign. The blacksmith shop was there; also a solitary vast live-oak, which stretched its limbs straight out fifty feet, and no matter how many of the outlying farmers gathered there to wait while their horses were shod, they did not need to wait in the sun, there was shade enough and to spare. They were always coming and going, Saturday afternoons, but they did not hurry their going, for that was the central gossip-exchange for a wide stretch of country round about, and in that old simple day supplied the place of the lacking newspaper.
Several farmers were lolling in the shade on this particular afternoon, talking, and smoking their cob pipes. Ordinarily they would have been discussing the weather and the crops, then last Sunday’s sermon; afterward the gossip-mill would begin to grind; but now there was only one topic. A great and unusual event had occurred, and it had paled all other interests. Walter Baldwin had been horse-whipping Jake Bleeker. What for, nobody knew. Bleeker refused to say, and no one had inquired of Baldwin. Baldwin was the most respected man in those parts, a man of fine character and reputation, a good man; but the people stood in some little awe of him, for in mind and education he was rather their superior, and although he was friendly and courteous with all, he was a little reserved in his ways, and not really familiar with any. Everybody liked him, everybody was glad to talk with him and visit him and be visited by him, and everybody privately regarded his friendship as an honor; but no one of them all would have thought of asking him why he had horse-whipped Jake Bleeker. All wondered, with a strenuous and persecuting curiosity, what it could possibly have been that had carried his temper so far, for it had been many years since he had allowed it to get the best of him —not, indeed, since he was a young bachelor and once in a sudden rage had come near killing a man. He was in liquor at the time, and from that day forth had wholly ceased from drinking and had kept a stern guard over his hot disposition. He was getting toward fifty, now. He was a widower, with no family except two daughters, aged eighteen and twenty respectively. He loved them deeply, and they loved him—under limitations. In one regard he failed of their approval: he was not strongly interested in religious matters, and did not go to church, whereas religion was not merely an interest with them, it was a passion; their mother had had it before them.
Baldwin had not an enemy. George Harrison disliked him, but he was not an enemy. The dislike dated back to a time when the two were boys together, and if it had ever had a special origin, neither of them would now have been able to recall what it was.
Jake Bleeker worked in George Harrison’s grist mill, and was a German. He had a wife, but no children living. He had been in America many years, and spoke good enough English. He always spoke it, except when angry or startled; then he was apt to revert to his mother tongue. On those occasions he was unintelligible to everybody except George Harrison, his employer, who, in the course of years, had gathered from him a smattering of his language. Harrison was a favorite. He was a good-hearted man, clean and upright, blithe and cheery, and conspicuously kind and compassionate and humane. He was possessed of a peculiarly nice sense of honor, and it was said of him that he could neither be persuaded nor driven to do a thing which he thought wrong.
The men under the live-oak talked the horse-whipping over at great length, and all kinds of guesses were made as to the nature of the provocation that had brought it about, but no satisfactory result was reached, of course. In the course of the talk it came out that there was a report that Baldwin was under the influence of liquor when he did the cowhiding. That piece of news made a great stir. But was it believable? Could it really be true?
“Burt will know,” said Reuben Hoskins; “I’ll go and ask him.”
That was Burt Higgins, the blacksmith. Hoskins was soon back, and said—
“It’s so; he was under the influence; Jake told Burt so.”
It was decided, all around, that this detail was exceedingly important.
“It’s twenty-two years since he touched a drop or lost his grip on his temper,” said Park Robinson. “Why, it must have been something awful to stir him up like that, and knock all his props out from under him at one slam.”
“I wonder what his girls think of the business?” said Sam Griswold.
“Think of it?” said Hoskins; “Burt says they’re clean killed, and ashamed to look anybody in the face; he says they packed right up and left for their aunt Mary’s, in the village, and ain’t coming back till they’ve cried it out.”
There was a general hum, but whether it signified approval, or pity, or what, was not determinable. The afternoon was far spent. The men unhitched their horses and prepared to ride. As they mounted, the blacksmith appeared at his door, untying his leather apron and delivering his good-byes, and the men asked him how Jake Bleeker was feeling about the matter.
“How does he take it?”
“Jake? Well, the way he carries on, you never see anything like it. But he’s so raging mad you can’t make much out of it, because he does the most of it in Dutch, the way he always does when his temper’s up. Says he’ll get even, if it’s the last act; says he’ll play him a trick, first thing he knows, that’ll make him ashamed he was born; that he won’t forget for one spell, anyway. Keeps saying that, then he goes off into Dutch again.”
A Couple of days passed by. Rumors flew that Baldwin was still drinking. Then, on Tuesday morning, came dreadful news—Baldwin had murdered Jake Bleeker! He had been caught red-handed, and jailed. As for particulars, none were to be had. The murderer was the only witness of the act itself; only he and his legal counsel knew how the crime had come about, and they were not ready to talk yet. At the inquest the murderer said nothing. By and by the grand jury indicted him for murder in the first degree, but what they had learned about the case they kept to themselves, of course. The trial would take place in December; meantime the people could guess, and talk; and that is what they most diligently did. At first they were sorry for the prisoner, but that did not last. The thing was horrible; killings were not customary there; this was the first one that had happened in a generation; it had put a blot upon the region. As time went on, opinion grew bitter against the accused, and steadily more and more bitter, more and more hostile; and at the same time, opinion was changing regarding the murdered man. At first he had not seemed much of a loss, but gradually his value increased, and in the end reached an unreckonable preciousness. The gallows must avenge his taking off, nothing else would satisfy the community.
Five Months drifted by.
When the case came up in court at last, in December, everybody was there to see. There was some difficulty in getting a jury, because nearly everybody had formed an unalterable opinion prejudicial to the prisoner because the prejudice against the prisoner was so general. Before the panel had been secured, the peremptory challenges had been exhausted on both sides. George Harrison was among the chosen. Neither side objected to him. He acknowledged that he disliked the accused, but said that that would be no bar to his bringing in a verdict in straight and honest accordance with the evidence. No one doubted that. His acceptance by the defence was a high tribute to his character, but an earned one. Sam Griswold was the first witness called.
Evidence of Samuel Griswold.—“On the 17th of July last, about eleven at night, I was coming along the old stage road with Nicholas Hyatt and Henry Joyce, and we heard a yell, like as if somebody was in trouble, and it seemed to come from prisoner’s house, which was sixty yards off—it’s been measured since. We rushed there, and up through the front yard, and found the door open; and inside, in the bedroom on the right, we found the prisoner struggling up off of the floor, and he was all bloody; and just inside the door a man was stretched on his back, with his arms spread out; and he was gasping, and his head was a sight to see. It was Jake Bleeker. So then—”
Prosecution. “Was there a light burning in the room:”
“No, but Joyce had a lantern.”
“Do you recognize this stick—this club?”
“Yes; it was lying on the floor.”
“Had you ever seen it before?”
“Yes; often.”
“Where?”
“Prisoner often carried it.”
“Prisoner had a dazed look, and was unsteady on his legs. We judged he had been drinking. We stood a minute, looking, then Bleeker gave a gasp, and was dead.”
“Had he said anything?”
“Only moaned, and muttered something we didn’t understand. Dutch, we reckoned.”
“Go on.”
“Joyce asked prisoner how it happened, but he only shook his head kind of slow and wondering, and said, ‘It’s an awful business —oh, my God!’” (Sensation.)
“Go on.”
“Then I asked him if he was willing to go with us, and he said he was; so we went; and on the way to the village I was going to ask him some more questions, but Hyatt said maybe we best not—”
The Court. “And quite right.”
“—so I didn’t ask him and he never said anything more.”
Joyce and Hyatt corroborated this testimony. The three witnesses were cross-examined, then they were followed by witnesses who testified to the horse-whipping, but did not know how it had come about. On cross-examination two of these deposed to having heard Bleeker threaten that he would “get even” with the prisoner; and one of them (Burt Higgins) added that deceased had said he would play a trick on [prisoner] that he “wouldn’t forget for one spell.”
Then Bridget Finnigan Bleeker was called.
A buzz of interest swept the house, and all eyes were centred upon the widow as she rose and kissed the book. She was in deep black. She was very pale, and her face was set, and hard, and unforgiving. After the usual perfunctory questions—
Prosecution. “Do you recognize the prisoner at the bar?”
Witness bent a vengeful gaze upon the prisoner for a moment, and said she recognised him—“to her sorrow.”
Prosecution. “Where were you about nine o’clock of the evening of the 17th July last?”
“In the mill.”
“How did you come to be there?”
“My husband had went over there after supper about something or other, and there was a message for him and I went with the nigger to find him and give him the note, which was from the murderer there—”
The Court. “Stop! You must not use language like that. Say prisoner.”
“But he is a murderer, your honor, and the blackest one th—”
Prosecution. “Be quiet, and do as the Court tells you! Go on.”
“Well, then, it was from him, and said he was sorry and ashamed he done it, and would my husband come over and let him tell him with his own mouth, he was sick and it would comfort him; and my husband went, though I begged him not to, and told him it was a trap—and the scoundrel murdered him.”
The Court. “Witness!—”
Prosecution. “Do try and behave yourself!”
The Defence. “Your honor, I must protest. I beg your honor to instruct the jury to pay no attention to this evidence. It is pure hearsay. The note has not been produced here—”
Witness. “Because my husband had it with him, and any fool knows that that blackguard stole it off of the corpse and burnt it.” (Sobbing.) “And I hope the everlasting fires of—”
The Court. “Shut up, will you!”
The Defence. “Your honor, the evidence is pure hearsay, and profoundly unfair to my client; it is unlawful and inadmissible. The whole community knows it is claimed that the messenger was a negro, the slave of my client and one of his servants. Right in the face of the law that negro slave is actually testifying in this court, by proxy, in a matter which wholly concerns a white man. It is monstrous—it is inhuman—it is unchristian! It is not provable here that the negro ever carried any note—”
A Voice. “Says he did, anyhow!”
Defence. “Yes—and is paid to say it! There is no evidence here, your honor.”
The Court. “On the contrary. There is evidence that a note was sent; there is evidence showing what its contents were. How or by whom the note was conveyed is immaterial. Take your seat.”
Witness. “There, now, how do you like the taste of that, you spalpeen!”
The Court. “Silence, woman!”
Prosecution. “Why did the prisoner cowhide your husband?”
Witness. “My Jake told me that the way of it—”
The Defence. “More hearsay! Your honor surely will not—”
The court silenced the witness. After a few tentative questions had been asked, it was clear that the witness had but a confused notion of the cause of quarrel; therefore the matter was dropped. The cross-examination accomplished little; and when it was finished the house was in no friendly mood toward the prisoner. It had long ago heard about the negro and the note, and the note’s contents; these things had now been verified by sworn testimony; how the prisoner came to kill the [other man] was still a mystery, but the thing had a very bad look; for even if murder had not been originally intended but had resulted from a new quarrel, an advantage had been taken, for the prisoner was armed and the other man defenceless. The deceased was his guest, and entitled to fair play. The prisoner might be able to show that the killing was unavoidable and excusable, and of course he would do his best in that direction; it would be an able effort, for his intellectual equipment was good. No one knew his side of the case except himself and his counsel. His statement would be fresh, new, unstaled by previous handling and discussion, and there were advantages in that. He was now placed in the witness-box by the defence and sworn.
His long imprisonment and his sense of the disgrace that had come upon him had told upon him and he looked worn and old, and depressed. He let his eyes wander slowly about, as if he were vaguely hoping for the help of a friendly face; then dropped them, as one who is disappointed, and began his story. His voice was low, but audible, for a breathless hush of expectancy reigned in the place.
“I was alone in the house. I had given the servants passes, and they were away at a frolic.” (Murmur of low voices:“Um—carrying messages!”) “I had taken to drinking again, and had been drinking now. I was in my room up stairs. I was sitting at my table, and I think I must have been half asleep; for when I started up I was in the dark; the candle had burned out. I was roused by a shout down stairs. There were no closed doors between, and I distinguished the words. They were, ‘You godless villain!’ The voice was Bleeker’s. They were followed by a wild cry or yell, and a heavy fall. I groped my way to the door and to the stairs, and went stumbling down and into the room which has been described here already, and there at the threshold I fell over an obstruction. I was getting up when Joyce and the others entered with the lantern. The obstruction—but you know what it was.”
Defence. “Had you sent for deceased?”
“No.”
“Written him a note?”
“No.”
“Were you expecting him?”
“No.”
“Take the witness.”
The house was astonished. So this lame tale was all he had to offer! This was the able and elaborate and convincing statement they had been waiting all these months to hear! A plain, straight, impudent pretence that he hadn’t even quarreled with the man, let alone killed him! In its amazement and disgust it hardly knew which to do—swear or laugh.
Prosecution. “The servants were out, you say?”
“Yes.”
“The jury will please take note that he ad—”
The Court. “Leave that. We cannot call the servants.”
Prosecution. “You had recently had a misadventure with Jacob Bleeker, I believe?”
“Yes.”
“State the origin of it.”
“It was a thing of no consequence. I had been drinking; it would not have occurred, else. Since my wife died, two years ago, I have not been a happy man. And in my moral strength I have been losing ground. It was by her strength and her support that I had for twenty-two years forborne to drink and quarrel. I have said I was not happy. In a mood of despondency I tasted liquor again. That was fatal; the habit returned at once, and I shall be its servant till the end. That man provoked me, the drink inflamed my passion and I used my whip on him.”
“What was it he did? what was it he said?”
“As I have said, it was a trifle. I will not particularize.”
“A trifle. Do you resent trifles in such a violent way?”
“I have explained what influence I was under.”
“You were under the like influence on the night of the 17th July, I believe?”
The prisoner nodded his head.
“And therefore in the proper condition to resent trifles again?”
The prisoner was silent. (Murmurs of “Prosecution scored on him that time!”)
“Tell me. Did your feeling of resentment pass away with the horse-whipping? Did it? Answer me! Did it?”
The prisoner hesitated; started to speak; hesitated again, then remained silent.
“Answer the question!” thundered the lawyer.
“I think—think—”
“I ask you, did it pass away!”
“N-no—not wholly.”
“Ah—not wholly. We are making progress. Pay attention, now; remember, you are on oath. Was something of that feeling still left on the night of the 17th of July?”
The prisoner tried to speak; he swallowed several times, as if his throat were dry—
“Answer!”
“Y-yes.”
A deep murmur swelled through the house.
“Very well. Very well. Something of it was still remaining. Now then—do you recognise this stick—this club—with the hair and the black stains on it?”
“Yes.”
“Is it yours?”
“Yes.”
“How did it come to be on that floor by the side of that slaughtered man, that night?”
“I—I—give you my honor I am not able to explain it.”
“Are you sure you did not take it there yourself?”
“I do not think I did.”
“You do not think you did. It seems you are not certain. Do you swear you did not take it there?”
“I—well, I cannot swear, but I know I have no recollection of it.”
“You had been drinking; you were not clearly at yourself; is it not presumable that you gathered it up and took it there without being conscious of it?”
“Y-es—I suppose it could happen.”
“Very well. You suppose it could happen. The jury will take note of that. I will now ask you about another matter. You were roused out of a semi-conscious state that night by a shout, and you quoted the words. What did you say those words were?”
“You godless villain.”
“You are certain those were the words?”
“Yes—quite certain.”
“And the voice Bleeker’s?”
“Yes.”
“You are perfectly sure it was Bleeker’s?”
“Perfectly.”
“Those words were—say them again.”
“You godless villain.”
“Ah—you always say them the same way: I see you have your lesson well.”
The house smiled, and a dim flush appeared for a moment in the prisoner’s cheeks. The lawyer paused some moments, after the manner of his kind when an effect is preparing. Then—
“The idea which you wish to convey is sufficiently clear: that there was another person down there; that the words were shouted at that person; which gives us the opportunity to infer that that person was quarreling with Jacoh Bleeker, and killed him. The idea is well enough—in the absence of a better; it has been used before, in fact is the usual thing; hut—this time it has a defect.” He paused again, to give the general curiosity a chance to work, and grow, then he said, as if to himself, slowly, meditatively, and as if he were carefully computing the weight and dimensions of each word—
“You—godless—villain. It is lofty—it is stately—it is theatrical —it is melodramatic.” Then suddenly, with a shout which made the house jump, “Shakspeare could have built the phrase, but that ignorant German low-wage mill-hand never did!”
The effect was stunning. “By George, it’s so!—I never thought of that!” That was the substance of a hundred ejaculations that burst out all over the house. And Ben Thurlow said to Park Robinson, “Why, Park, I never noticed it, but just think of poor Dutchy trying to get off such a swell thing as that; blame it, even the parson couldn’t a done it.”
“No, sir-ee,” responded Robinson, “there ain’t any man could a done it but the Squire himself.”
The lawyer was happy, and looked it; one could imagine him purring inside.
“It may be that the jury will agree with me that there is one man among us, and only one, whose reading, whose cultivation, and whose habit of mind and speech have made it easy and natural for him to put words together in that large and uncommon way—and that man is the prisoner himself.” (Robinson to Thurlow, with pride, “The very thing I said!”) “I am afraid we shall have to doubt that that fine speech establishes the presence of a third person in that house on the fatal night. Now then, I wish to call attention to what seems to me to be a very curious thing. We know it to be unusual for a person to take note of the exact wording of a chance remark and keep it in his memory. We are accustomed to say, ‘The substance is clear in my memory, but I do not feel quite able to swear to the precise wording of it;’ but here we have a witness who remembers the exact wording of a chance remark, and reproduces it again and again in just the same form—powerful evidence of unembarrassed consciousness and a clear head at the time he heard it—and in the face of this he asks us to believe that not two minutes afterward he is in the presence of so tremendous a combination as a murdered man and a gory club and yet can’t remember with certainty whether he carried that club thither or didn’t—merely remarks that he could have done it. It seems quite likely! This is indeed a curious memory, a picturesque memory! It takes an iron grip upon the absolutely impossible, and wavers and is unsure about the almost certain!” (Murmurs of “He’s got him—he’s got him, sure!”) “I am done. It is not my privilege, under the law, to go further. The matter stands thus: there is evidence—uncorroborated—that you sent for that man to come to you at dead of night, your family and servants being absent at the time and you alone in the house; there is unassailable evidence that you were embittered against him at the time; there is evidence that this weapon, so fatally used, is your property, and that you are not sure you did not take it there, and yet are positively sure as to the exact wording of a melodramatic and manifestly imaginary speech which you think you heard not two minutes before you were discovered, all drenched with blood, in the presence of that accusing weapon and its awful work. I am not permitted to ask you if there was a quarrel and if the man fell by your hand. The law mercifully shields you from these questions, and I proceed no further. Your counsel will defend you as well as he may; I shall make no plea; the jury will know its duty, and will perform it.”
Counsel for the defence rose, but the prisoner motioned him to his seat again, and rose himself, and said, with dignity and a certain impressiveness:
“Nothing can avail, and it is not worth while. I know what the verdict will be, for I know the force of unchallenged evidence, and how to estimate it. I do not welcome that verdict, but I do not appeal against it. I should render it myself, in the jury’s place. A word more. There comes a time in the lives of some men when rest from life is better than anything that life itself can offer. That time had come for me, even before this trouble. Nothing that I could say here could alter the impending verdict, and I will hold my peace; but I will leave behind me in writing—”
He broke off, moved his lips a moment or two, as if trying to continue, then made a wandering gesture with his hand and sat down.
There was a volleying discharge of whispers, all about the house: “It’s a confession!—it’s a confession!” “I said he was guilty, from the start!” “So did I!” “I said it, too!” “And I!” “And I!”
Five minutes passed—they did not return. Ten minutes—fifteen —still they did not return. What could the matter be? Half an hour passed. An hour. Everybody was astonished. The judge began to look irritated. The afternoon sun was getting low. Two hours, and still no jury. Three hours. The audience still sat waiting—and stupefied with surprise. Evening was come.
A constable appeared, with a message:
“The foreman’s compliments, your honor, and begs a discharge.”
“A what!”
“The jury can’t agree.”
“Can’t—a—gree! In-credible!”
“It is what he said, your honor.”
“It is the most amazing thing—the most preposterous thing—the most—the—the—tell the sheriff to lock them up and keep them till they do agree! The sitting is closed.”
The house and court and lawyers rose in a body and went swarming out, excitedly discussing the unheard-of and thitherto unthinkable and impossible incident—a man with not a word of evidence in his favor, and a perfect landslide of evidence against him, as good as confesses his guilt and the jury can’t agree!
The prisoner sat with his head bowed. What he thought of the strange episode was not apparent.
“Now then, gentlemen,” said Denison, the foreman, preparing to poll his men, “for one, I’m not sorry our melancholy job is over. Adams!”
“Guilty!”
“Conrad!”
“Guilty!”
“Cook!”
“Deming!”
“Guilty!”
“Myself! Same verdict. Denison!”1
“The same—guilty!”
“Fargo!”
“Guilty!”
“Jackson!”
“Guilty!”
“Johnson!”
“Guilty!”
“Peters!”
“Guilty!”
“Sexton!”
“Guilty!”
“Well, gentlemen, it’s a verdict. Now—”
“Wait—you’ve skipped Harrison.”
“Why, it’s so—I beg pardon. Harrison!”
“Not guilty.”
“What! Not g—oh, come, you don’t mean it.”
“Not guilty. It’s what I said.”
The eleven were speechless; they could only gasp and gaze. Then the foreman said—
“Well, it clean bangs me, I -must say. You are the very last man. Why, Harrison—oh, great Scott! I can’t understand it at all. Come —what is your reason? what’s the difficulty?”
“It’s very simple. I think his guilt is not proven.”
The eleven threw up their hands and exclaimed in dazed and astonished unison, “Not proven!” Fargo added—
“How in the world do you make that out? Harrison, don’t forget that you swore to bring in a verdict according to the evidence and your conscience.”
“I’m not forgetting it, Henry. I’m sticking to the oath—letter and spirit. Answer me—if there’s a doubt isn’t the accused entitled to the benefit of it?”
“Certainly.”
“The evidence leaves me in doubt. Now then, what is my duty? State it yourself.”
“Well—er—of course if there’s a doubt—but where in the nation do you find it? That is what puzzles us.”
“I don’t mind admitting that I don’t know, myself, what it is that gives me the doubt, but there it is, and I can’t get rid of it. The evidence is sound, straight, looks all right, and I know it ought to convince me; and the fact is it does convince my head, but not the rest of me. The rest of me—that is my conscience, I suppose. It keeps warning me that nobody saw the Squire kill the man, and then it shoves in the doubt. It’s not very much of a doubt, maybe, but it’s a doubt. I can’t bring him in guilty in the face of that.”
“Well, upon my soul! George Harrison, you take the rag! I’ve seen a many exhibition consciences in my time, but I’m blamed if yourn ain’t a long sight the thinskindest one I’ve ever struck yet. I think you ought to keep it done up in something, it’s likely to catch its death in this climate.”
“Delicate?” sniffed Hank Jackson; “land, it ain’t any name for it!”
As time wore along, persuasions were tried—arguments were tried—beseechings, implorings, supplications were tried. All in vain. The man stood his ground. By request, the sheriff sent a message to the judge—the jury couldn’t agree; he got his answer. Night fell at last; candles were lit; supper was brought; the meal was eaten; the reasonings, persuasions, beseechings, were resumed. There was no result. By midnight the men were tired out; and one by one they stretched themselves out, cocooned in blankets, on the floor around the roaring stove, and listened to the wintry gale shrieking outside, and lulled themselves to sleep with cursings of their brother’s inconvenient conscience.
The morning came—dreary, cold, snowy, miserable. The men were worn, seedy, lame in all their joints, irritable. They ate their breakfast in moody silence. At intervals, during the day, the old subject was brought up, and in each case it got but a little way before the sheriff had to interfere to stop a row. The man with the conscience steadfastly refused to give in. Messengers went to the judge from time to time, but he would not discharge the jury.
Night came—and no supper! The judge said, “Starve them into a verdict.”
The sheriff added three constables to his force, and he needed them. About midnight, the men sitting angry and still around the stove, there came a break after a long silence. It was Sexton who spoke:
“George Harrison, how much do you owe Squire Baldwin?”
The men pricked up their ears.
“Who says I owe him anything?”
“I say it. And I know how it happened, too. You owed four hundred and eighty dollars to his sister, widow Hooker—borrowed money. For years—three at least—ain’t that so?”
“Oh, that! That’s no news; everybody knows it. What of it?”
“Yes, everybody knows it, but there’s something else that everybody don’t know—but I know it. I just happen to.”
“Well, what do you know?”
“I know this: that the Squire bought that note last summer. And I know this, too: that he was going to put the law on you and sell your mill. You were in an awful sweat and in a mighty close place. He was going to do it on the 19th of July—you know it well—but he got into jail on the 17th!”
All the men jumped up and began to shout at once:
“That’s what’s the matter with his conscience!”
“It’s perfectly plain: if we hang the murderer, the estate’ll sell the mill!”
“And if Harrison hangs the jury the debt’s forgiven!”
“He’s sold himself! sold himself for four hundred and eighty dollars and interest!”
“Worked like a dog to get on the jury—now we know why!”
“Conscience a-working him—oh, hell!”
“Go on—say what you want to. I never got on the jury to sell myself. But now that I am on it, I’ll stand by my conscience. The judge says he’ll starve a verdict out of us. Let him do it, if he thinks he can. I reckon you know me. Starve? I’ll stay right here till I rot, and then I won’t give in, you damned cabbages!”
The sheriff and his four constables took a hand, now, and at the end of ten minutes peace reigned once more and there was opportunity to gather up the rags and buttons.
The jury starved all through the next day and night, and then the morning of Christmas Eve dawned, and the famished men listened to the clamor of the joy-bells and groaned in spirit. The judge opened court at nine in the morning and sent to the jury-room for news. The same tiresome answer came back:
“The jury can’t agree.”
The judge pondered a moment, then said—
“Call them in.”
They came in, and the foreman made his report. The judge looked the poor frowsy and ragged group over with a stern and reproachful eye, and said—
“If it was any day but this, I—you are discharged! Sheriff, set the prisoner free!”
1 Mark Twain used the same name for two jurors.