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When the wagon reached the down-town district, the inquest was over. It had been a simple matter to secure another witness for the identification of the body. The jury had made short work of their task, and had found that Crown had come to his death as the result of a chest wound at the hands of person or persons unknown.
Porgy was taken at once to the station house, where the charge of “Contempt of Court” was formally entered against him on the blotter, and he was locked up to await trial early the following morning.
Under the wheezing gas jet, the Recorder looked Porgy over with his weary glance, brought the tips of his slender fingers together; gave him “five days,” in his tired drawl, and raised his eyes to the next negro on the morning’s list.
They hoisted the outfit, goat and all, into the patrol for the trip to the jail, thus again brightening a day for a group of light-hearted Nordics upon the pavement.
A large, red-faced policeman took his seat at the rear of the wagon.
“You sure beat all!” he confided to Porgy, with a puzzled frown. “Runnin’ away like the devil was after you, from bein’ a witness; an’ now goin’ to jail with a face like Sunday mornin’.”