"We'll not adjourn to-night until we have a jury!"
Marriott had one peremptory challenge left, and eleven men had been accepted. It was now a matter of luck.
"George Holden," called the clerk.
A broad-shouldered man of medium height came promptly forward, took the oath, leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, folded his strong hands in his lap, and raised a pair of deep blue eyes to Eades. As he sat there, something in the poise of his fine head, with its thick curly hair, claimed attention; interest revived; every one looked at him. He had a smooth-shaven face and a wide white brow, and the collar of his dark flannel shirt was open, freeing his strong neck and ample throat. Marriott suddenly conceived a liking for the man.
"What is your occupation, Mr. Holden?" asked Eades.
"Machinist."
He had read the newspaper accounts of the murder of Kouka and of the Flanagan tragedy, but he had not formed any real opinions; he may have formed impressions, but he could lay them aside; he didn't go much anyway, he said, on what he read in the newspapers.
The formal questions were put and answered to Eades's satisfaction; then came the real question:
"Are you opposed to capital punishment?"
"Yes, sir, I am."