bearing weight were still some three feet below the window-sills. Still,
the boys could hear plainly what was going on, and could see into the
room on an upward slant.
Evidently the legal processes had been fulfilled, and the first witness
was giving his testimony.
"I was working in my field, throwing out manure, when I saw the prisoner
come out of the popple thicket on Pritchard's place."
"How far were you from the thicket?"
"My field is right across the county road."
"At what point did the prisoner emerge from the thicket as respects the
spot where the body was found?"
"He came out right opposite, a good quarter-mile, I should say."
"Anything unusual in the prisoner's appearance or actions?"
"He didn't have no hat. I noticed that."
After a few more questions the witness was excused. In an instant he
appeared in the boys' line of vision and sat down.
Another witness was sworn, and deposed that he had been driving along
the county road, and had also seen Mr. Kincaid emerge from the thicket
without a hat. This witness likewise, on being excused, crossed the room
and took his seat near the window.
This point established, the prosecution called upon the man who had
found the body. He stated that he was in the employ of the deceased; had
gone out afoot to look up a strayed cow, had come across the body late
in the afternoon. Pritchard had been killed by a knife thrust in the
throat. He lay on his back. He had carried a 22-calibre rifle with which
he was accustomed to shoot hawks and crows. The rifle had been
discharged. In looking about for evidence witness had found a cap lying
by a stump ten feet or so down hill. He identified the cap. He also took
a seat where Bobby and Johnny could see him--a short thickset man with
a swarthy complexion and very oily long black hair.
A witness was called who identified positively the cap as belonging to
Mr. Kincaid.
At this point the prosecution rested. A moment later Bobby heard again
the measured, calm tones of his friend, called in his own defence.
"I know nothing about it," said Mr. Kincaid after the usual
preliminaries, "I was nowhere near the scene of the murder. What the
first witness had to say as to personal antagonism between Pritchard and
myself was quite true: he had ordered me off his land, and very
offensively. We had some words at that time."
"When was that?" asked the attorney.
"Some months back. Therefore I took especial pains to keep off his land,
and was at the lower edge of the thicket a good quarter-mile from the
place his body was found."
"You did not enter the thicket?"
"Only a few feet, after the dog took my cap."
"How about the cap?"
"My retriever, Curly, was playing with me. I was teasing him by waving
the cap before him. He managed to get hold of it and ran with it into
the thicket. In a moment or so he came back without it. I could not
find it, nor could I induce him to retrieve it."
"When was this?"
"About two o'clock."
"Two witnesses have sworn they saw you come out of the thicket shortly
before sun-down."
"That was on my way home. I tried again to get Curly to hunt up the
cap."
"How do you account for the cap's being found at the upper edge of the
thicket?"
"I cannot account for it."
"Could the dog have carried it that far in the time before he returned?"
"I do not think so--I am certain not."
"How do you account for the holes?"
"They might have been the marks of Curley's teeth," said Mr. Kincaid
doubtfully.
"Look at them,"
A pause ensued.
"They certainly do not look like teeth marks," acknowledged Mr. Kincaid.
At this moment the heavy bell in the engine-house tower boomed out the
first strokes of noon. The boys nearly lost their holds from the
surprise of it. By the time they had recovered, court had been declared
adjourned, and the crowds were pouring forth from the opened double
doors.
XXIV
THE TRIAL (CONTINUED)
By remarkable promptitude and the exercise of the marvellous properties
ascribed impartially to the worm, the eel, and the snake, Bobby and
Johnny succeeded in gaining a place in the court-room for the afternoon
session. It was not a very good place. Breast-high in front of them was
a rail. Behind them pressed a suffocating crowd. On the other side of
the rail were many benches on which was seated another crowd. This
second multitude concealed utterly whatever occupied the floor of the
court-room. Only when one or another of the actors in the proceedings
arose to his feet could the boys make out a head and shoulders. They
could see the massive walnut desk and the judge, however; and the lower
flat tables at which sat the recording officials. And on the blank white
wall ticked solemnly a big round clock. The second-hand moved forward by
a series of swift jerks, but watch as he would Bobby could see no
perceptible motion of the other two hands. In the monotony of some of
the proceedings this bland clock fascinated him.
Likewise the living wall before him caught and held his half-suffocated
interest--the slope of their shoulders, the material of their coats, the
shape of their heads, the cut of their hair. One by one he passed them
in review. Two seats ahead sat a thickset man with very long, oily black
hair. He turned his head. Bobby recognized the man who had found
Pritchard's body. He nudged Johnny, calling attention to the fact.
The prosecuting attorney was on his feet making a speech. It was
interesting enough at first, but after a time Bobby's attention
wandered. The prosecuting attorney was a young man, ambitious, and ego
was certainly a large proportion of _his_ cosmos. Bobby listened to him
while he spoke of the obvious motive for the deed; but when he began
again, and in detail, to go over the evidence already adduced, Bobby
ceased to listen. Only the monotonous cadences of the voice went on and
on. The clock tick-tocked. People breathed. It reminded him of church.
A little stir brought him back from final drowsiness. A man in the row
ahead of him wanted to get out. The disturber carried an overcoat over
his left arm, and it amused Bobby vastly to see the stiff collar of that
overcoat rumple the back hair of those who sat in the second row. As he
watched, it caught the long oily locks of the witness for the
prosecution. With a fierce exclamation the man turned, scowling at the
other's whispered excuse. When he had again faced the front, he had
rearranged his disturbed locks.
After this slight interruption, Bobby again relapsed into day-dreaming.
He fell once more to visualizing the scene of that day. Gradually the
court-room faded away. He saw the hillside, the burnt logs on the bare
ground, the popples silvery in the sun, the sky blue above the hill. The
patch of brown by the rustling scrub oak glimmered before his eyes. He
saw again the exact angle it lay above him. For the hundredth time he
looked over the sights of the rifle, fair against that spot of brown. "I
must have over-shot a foot," he sighed, "or it would have taken him
square."
And then as he stared over the sights, his finger on the trigger, the
imaginary scene faded, the familiar court-room came out of the mists to
take its place. Slowly the brown spot at which he aimed dissolved, a
man's head took its place; the oily-haired witness for the prosecution
happened now to occupy exactly the position relative to Bobby's attitude
as had Mr. Kincaid's cap the day of the murder. And through the slightly
disarranged long hair, and exactly in line with the imaginary rifle
sights Bobby could just make out a dull red furrow running along the
scalp. At this instant, as though uneasy at a scrutiny instinctively
felt, the man reached back to smooth his locks. The scar at once
disappeared.
XXV
THE HOLE IN THE CAP
For perhaps ten seconds Bobby sat absolutely motionless while a new
thought was born. Then, oblivious of surroundings or of the exasperated
objections of those near him, he clambered over the rail and wriggled
his way to the open aisle. Several tried to seize him, but he managed in
some manner to elude them all. Once in the open he darted forward toward
the astonished officials. His freckled face was very red, his stubby
hair towsled, his gray eyes earnest. The sheriff rose from his seat as
though to stop him.
"I want to see that cap!" cried Bobby to the blur in general. He caught
sight of it, ran to seize it, looked at it closely, and threw it down
with a little cry of triumph. The bullet holes were not both at the top:
one perforation was high up; but the other, on the left hand side, was
situated low, near the edge. Bobby knew that the man who had worn that
cap must have been hit.
The judge's gavel was in the air, the sheriff on his feet, a hundred
mouths open to expostulate against this interruption of a grave
occasion.
"Mr. Kincaid did not do it!" cried Bobby aloud.
The clamour broke out. The sheriff seized Bobby by the arm.
"Here," he growled at him, "you little brat! What do you mean, raising a
row like this?"
Bobby struggled. He had a great deal to say. All was confusion. Half the
room seemed to be on its feet. Bobby saw his father making way toward
him through the crowd. Only the clock and the white-haired judge beneath
it seemed to have retained their customary poise. The clock tick-tocked
deliberately, and its second-hand went forward in swift jerks; the judge
sat quiet, motionless, his chin on his fists, his eyes looking steadily
from under their bushy white brows.
"Just a moment," said the judge, finally, "Sheriff, bring that boy
here."
Bobby found himself facing the great walnut desk. Behind him the room
had fallen silent save for an irregular breathing sound.
"Who are you?" asked the judge.
"Bobby Orde."
"Why do you say the prisoner--Mr. Kincaid--did not commit the deed?"
Bobby started in a confused way to tell about the cap. The judge raised
his hand.
"Were you present at this crime?" he asked shrewdly.
"Yes, sir," replied Bobby.
The judge lowered his voice so that only Bobby could hear.
"Do you know who murdered Mr. Pritchard?"
"Yes, sir," replied Bobby in the same tone, "I do."
"Who was it?"
"I don't know his name. He's sitting----"
"I thought so," interrupted the judge. "Mr. Sheriff," he called sharply.
That official approached. "Close all doors," said the judge to him
quietly, "and see that no one leaves this room. Mr. Attorney, your
witness here is ready to be sworn."
Bobby went through the preliminaries without a clear understanding of
them; or, indeed, a definite later recollection. He was deadly in
earnest. The crowd did not exist for him. Not the faintest trace of
embarrassment confused his utterance, but he got very little forward
under the prosecuting attorney's questioning--the matter was too
definite in his own mind to permit of his following another's method of
getting at it. Finally the judge interposed.
"It's not strictly in my province," said he, "but we are all anxious for
the truth. I hope the prosecuting attorney may see the advisability of
allowing the boy to tell his own story in his own way. Afterward he
will, of course, have full opportunity for cross-questions."
This being agreed to, Bobby went ahead.
"Mr. Kincaid lost his cap, just as he said, and Curly carried it into
the woods and dropped it. Another man came along and picked it up and
put it on. Then he walked through the thicket and came up with Mr.
Pritchard. He knew where Mr. Pritchard was because Mr. Pritchard had
just shot his little rifle at a hawk or something. He stabbed Mr.
Pritchard, and then walked down hill and climbed up on a stump to look
around. He was facing down hill. He saw Mr. Kincaid and Curly way below.
Just then his cap was knocked off by another bullet."
"What other bullet?" interposed the prosecution sharply.
"That was just an accident," said Bobby confusedly, "it happened to hit.
It wasn't shot at him at all."
"You mean a spent ball from somewhere else? Who shot it? Where did it
come from?"
"I'll 'splain that in a minute. Then he ran as fast as he could----"
That was as far as Bobby got for the moment. A slight confusion at one
of the doors interrupted him. Almost immediately it died, but before
Bobby could resume, the sheriff elbowed his way forward.
"Laughton--you know, that second witness, the fellow who worked for
Pritchard--tried to get out. I have him in charge."
"Hold him," said the judge. The sheriff elbowed his way back down the
aisle.
"How do you know all this?" began the prosecuting attorney.
"If Mr. Kincaid wore the cap, why isn't his head hurt?" demanded Bobby.
"If the shot was fired by Pritchard, when lying on the ground,"
explained the attorney, "it would not have scraped."
"But it wasn't," persisted Bobby. "It was fired from down hill, and
about thirty feet away. That would hit the man, wouldn't it?" he
appealed.
"Certainly."
"Well, is Mr. Kincaid hurt?"
"This, your honour," said the attorney with some impatience, "is beside
the mark----"
He was interrupted by a cry from Bobby.
"He's gone!" he wailed, pointing his hand toward the seat where Laughton
had been sitting.
"Was that the man?" asked the judge.
"Yes," said Bobby, "and he's gotten away."
"Mr. Sheriff," said the judge, "examine the man for a scar or wound on
the head."
The sheriff disappeared. The clock tick-tocked away five minutes, then
ten. Finally the door swung open.
"Your Honour," said the sheriff clearly, across the court-room, "the man
has confessed."
XXVI
THE SIXTEEN GAUGE SHOTGUN
Bobby and his friend, Johnny English, sat on the floor of Bobby's
chamber reviewing the exciting events of the afternoon. In the tumult
following the sheriff's announcement, Bobby was temporarily forgotten.
He had slipped back into the crowd, and from that point had followed
closely all that had ensued. Laughton's confession merely filled in the
details of Bobby's surmises. It seems that Pritchard had had a violent
quarrel with his man, ending by knocking him down and stalking off
across the fields. Mad with rage, Laughton had picked himself up and
followed without even pausing long enough to get a hat. He had lost
track of his victim in the popple thicket, but had come across Kincaid's
cap, which he had appropriated. A shot from Pritchard's little rifle
apprised him of his enemy's whereabouts. The murder committed, he had
mounted a stump to spy upon the country. He had seen Kincaid and his
dog, and was just about to withdraw, when the cap was knocked from his
head by a bullet which at the same time broke the skin on his scalp.
Thinking himself discovered, he had run. Later reconnoitring carefully,
he had seen two apparently unexcited small boys climbing into a pony
cart a half-mile away and had come to the conclusion that the bullet had
been spent, and a chance shot. The idea of incriminating Mr. Kincaid had
not come to him until later.
Mr. Kincaid had at once been released. Under cover of the
congratulations, the boys made their escape.
"I don't see how you ever figured it out!" cried Johnny for the twelfth
time.
"I knew it must have hit his head unless it just grazed his cap," said
Bobby, "and when I saw that scar----"
"Gee, it was great!" gloated Johnny, "just like a book! It'll be in all
the papers to-morrow. You saved Mr. Kincaid's life, didn't you?"
"I suppose I did," said Bobby complacently.
At this moment the open hot-air register began to speak, carrying up the
voices from the rooms below. As the subject under discussion was the
closest to the boys' hearts for the moment, they drew near to listen.
"It's Mr. Kincaid himself!" breathed Bobby.
"I've been trying to catch you all the way up the street," Mr. Kincaid
was saying, "but you walk like a steam engine."
"I felt good," explained Mr. Orde. "I knew you were innocent, of course;
but it looked dark."
"Yes, it looked dark," admitted Mr. Kincaid. "Where's that youngster of
yours? He saved the day."
"I was just going to look for him. There're a few points I'd like to
clear up. If he saw all that, why didn't he say something before?"
"Don't know. But he certainly spoke to the point when he did get going.
Look here, Orde, I'm proud of that kid. I want you to let me do
something; he's old enough now to have a sure enough gun, and I want you
to let me give it to him. Stafford has a little shotgun--16 gauge--ever
see one?"
"Nothing smaller than a 12" confessed Orde.
"Well, I told him to keep it for me. I'd like to give it to Bobby. He's
learned fast, and he's paid attention to what he learned. I don't
believe in guns for small boys, but Bobby is careful; he doesn't make
any breaks."
Johnny reached over to clasp Bobby excitedly.
"Now we can get partridges!" he squealed under his breath.
But Bobby was unexpectedly cold to this enthusiasm. He reached over to
close the register. At once the voices were shut off. Then for some time
he sat cross-legged staring straight in front of him. To Johnny's
remarks he replied irritably until that youngster flounced himself into
a corner with a book, ostentatiously indifferent.
Bobby was seeing things. As was his habit, he was visualizing a scene
that had passed, recalling each little detail of what had at the time
apparently passed lightly over his consciousness.
He saw again plainly the yellow sand-hills under his feet, and the
village lying below, its roofs half hidden in the lilac and mauve of
bared branches, its columns of smoke rising straight up in the frosty
air. He saw the sturdy round-shouldered form in the old shooting coat,
the lined brown lean face, the white moustache and the eyebrows, the
kindly twinkling eyes squinted against the western light. He heard again
Mr. Kincaid's deep slow voice:
"Sonny, you can always be a sportsman--a sportsman does things because
he likes them, Bobby, for no other reason--not for money, nor to become
famous, nor even to win--and a right man does not get pleasure in doing
a thing if in any way he takes an unfair advantage--if _you_--not the
thinking you, nor even the conscience you, but the way-down-deep-in-your
heart _you_ that you can't fool nor trick nor lie to--if that _you_ is
satisfied, it's all right."
Bobby sighed deeply and went downstairs.
XXVII
THE SPORTSMAN
He opened the door and entered very quietly, so that neither occupant of
the room saw him before he spoke.
"I heard what you said--through the register----" he explained. "But I
can't take the shotgun."
Both men turned and looked at him curiously, the first natural
exclamations stilled on their lips by the sight of his straight, earnest
little figure facing them.
"Why not, Bobby?" asked Mr. Orde at last.
"I was the one who fired that shot that hit Mr. Laughton's head. I did
it a-purpose."
"What for?"
"I saw something brown in the brush, and I was sure it was a partridge,
so I shot at it. I really didn't know it was a partridge. It just looked
brown. You told me not to do that, lots of times, but I got all excited,
and forgot. So you see I'm not careful, like you said. I ought not to
have any shotgun."
"Oh, Bobby!" said Mr. Kincaid. "And that's one of the most important
things of all!"
"I know, sir," said Bobby. "That's why I thought I'd tell you."
The two men examined the youngster for some time in silence. A very
tender look lurked back in their eyes.
"What did you do then?" asked Mr. Orde at last.
"I saw the cap fly up in the air, and ran."
"Yes?"
"And then after a little I saw Mr. Kincaid come out down below, and I
thought it was all right until I got home."
"Why did you jump up in court this afternoon?"
"I knew where I was standing, and I saw a scar on Laughton's head, and
then I knew if the holes in the cap were low down, he must have been the
man."
"Why didn't you tell all this before?"
"I'd never seen the cap; and I thought Mr. Kincaid had done it. I wasn't
going to give him away."
Both men burst into laughter.
"And you thought I'd kill a man!" reproached Mr. Kincaid at last.
"I'd have done it--to old Pritchard," maintained Bobby stoutly.
After a time Mr. Kincaid returned to the first subject.
"There is no doubt, Bobby," said he, "that a man careless enough to
shoot at anything without knowing what it is--especially in a settled
country--is not fit to have a gun of any kind. There are plenty of
people killed every year through just such carelessness. On that ground
you are quite right in saying that you do not deserve the new shotgun."
"Yes, sir," said Bobby.
"But you will never do anything like that again. You have learned your
lesson. And you told the truth. That is a great thing. It is easy to
cover up a mistake; but very hard to show it when you don't have to. I
was a little disappointed that you forgot about shooting at things; but
I am more than proud that you remembered to be a sportsman. With your
father's permission, I'm going to get you that shotgun, just the same.
We'll go down together in the morning to get it."
At the end of ten minutes more, Bobby returned to his room. He looked
about it as one looks on a half-remembered spot visited long ago. The
place seemed smaller; the toys trivial. A deep gulf had been passed
since he had left the room a half-hour before. To his eyes had opened a
new vision. Little Boyhood had fallen away from him as a garment. A
touch had loosed. All experience and observation had led the way; but it
was only in expectation of the supreme test of self-sacrifice. Character
changes radically only under that test. Bobby had borne it well; and now
stood at the threshold of his Youth.
He picked up the Flobert rifle and looked it over.
"It'll always be handy to fool with," said he to Johnny.
That youngster looked up with sardonic humour.
"Gee, you're gettin' swelled head with your new gun," said he.
THE END
* * * * *
KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN'S STORIES OF PURE DELIGHT
Full of originality and humor, kindliness and cheer
THE OLD PEABODY PEW. Large Octavo. Decorative text pages, printed in two
colors. Illustrations by Alice Barber Stephens.
One of the prettiest romances that has ever come from this author's pen
is made to bloom on Christmas Eve in the sweet freshness of an old New
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PENELOPE'S PROGRESS. Attractive cover design in colors.
Scotland is the background for the merry doings of three very clever and
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PENELOPE'S IRISH EXPERIENCES. Uniform in style with "Penelope's
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The trio of clever girls who rambled over Scotland cross the border to
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REBECCA OF SUNNYBROOK FARM.
One of the most beautiful studies of childhood--Rebecca's artistic,
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NEW CHRONICLES OF REBECCA. With illustrations by F. C. Yohn.
Some more quaintly amusing chronicles that carry Rebecca through various
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ROSE O' THE RIVER. With illustrations by George Wright.
The simple story of Rose, a country girl and Stephen a sturdy young
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* * * * *
LOUIS TRACY'S
CAPTIVATING AND EXHILARATING ROMANCES
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list
CYNTHIA'S CHAUFFEUR. Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy.
A pretty American girl in London is touring in a car with a chauffeur
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THE STOWAWAY GIRL. Illustrated by Nesbitt Benson.
A shipwreck, a lovely girl stowaway, a rascally captain, a fascinating
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THE CAPTAIN OF THE KANSAS.
Love and the salt sea, a helpless ship whirled into the hands of
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THE MESSAGE. Illustrated by Joseph Cummings Chase.
A bit of parchment found in the figurehead of an old vessel tells of a
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THE PILLAR OF LIGHT.
The pillar thus designated was a lighthouse, and the author tells with
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THE WHEEL O'FORTUNE. With illustrations by James Montgomery Flagg.
The story deals with the finding of a papyrus containing the particulars
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