“Look hyar, oughtn’t we ter hold on a while longer? Fur Mink Lorey will hev ter stay in jail fur four months more, till he kin git tried at the next term,” suggested Jerry Price.
“I’m willin’,” said Ben Doaks reluctantly. He looked doubtfully over his shoulder as he spoke. “Eh?” he said, as he turned his head back again.
“Nobody never said nuthin’,” declared the foreman.
“I ’lowed I hearn somebody call my name.”
“I’ll be bound ye did!” cried Bylor. “But nobody called it ez we kin see—yit.”
He rushed to the door and summoned the officer. The court was notified, and the twelve men were conducted down the stairs, each conscious of the presence of the unseen thirteenth.
It was like a transition from the conditions of delirium to the serene atmosphere of right reason. The windows were all flaring with lights, as if the court-room were some factory that ran all night. The lawyers looked fagged and worn out; they had the air of working by momentum aggregated during the day rather than by immediate exertion. It was a contrast to Averill’s leisurely procedure, and they regarded the innovation with exasperation and the judge with some personal animosity. He had his pen still in his hand; there was a moment’s silent waiting while he finished the line he was writing. Mink had been brought out from jail. He sat feverishly impatient and bright-eyed.
Harshaw and the attorney-general turned expectant and interested faces toward the jury.
The judge laid down his pen and looked kindly at them. He viewed them as a bit of completed work. He had a great respect for completed work.
When they were asked if they had agreed upon their verdict, the foreman answered that they could not agree.