“Oh, no, John was always as gentle as a lamb.”
“Then what are those iron and wooden slats at that window for?”
“Oh, well, we were afraid that he might take a fit some time and get into the street and say strange things.”
At this juncture of the garbled narrative, Herriges became flurred, and begged the reporters to do him justice, repeating the words.
“Now you will do me justice, won’t you? You see they say I have kept him imprisoned in this way to get his share of the property. He has not got a cent in the world, for this house is only the property of mother during her life time. It is all she has and when she dies it will have to be divided among the whole six of us.”
“But look here,” interrupted a gentlemen of the party, “what about those houses on Lombard street and the houses on Fourth street?”
“Oh, those are all my own,” answered he. “I worked and earned them myself.”
The questioner replied.
“But you told me this morning that your father died in Oregon and left all his property to you alone. How do you make that agree with this last statement?”
“Don’t interrupt me. You confuse me, and put me out. I am trying to tell a straight story and you throw me out. I’ll tell you again exactly all.”