Once she went over and whispered to him, but he only shook his head.
“Why did you kill the man?” the coroner suddenly shot at the witness as if to trip him.
Sandstrom looked at him stolidly. “Ay didn’t kill him. Ay bane got na goon.”
“He wasn’t shot, he was stabbed.”
“Ay bane got na knife. And Ay na kill him. Ay heerd his dyin’ words.” The Swede looked solemn.
“What were they?” asked the coroner, in the midst of a sudden silence.
“He said, ‘Ay bane murdered! Cain killt me! Wilful murder!’ and wi’ them words he deed.”
The simple narrative in the faulty English was dramatic and convincing. The countenance of the stolid foreigner was sad, and it might well be that he was telling the truth as he had seen and heard it.
Like an anti-climax, then, came an explosive “Gee!” from the back of the room.
People looked around annoyed, and the coroner rapped on the table in displeasure.