“I wanter see how many thar air,” said the jailer.
“On a jury? Shucks! ye’re funnin’. Twelve,” in the familiar tones of the sheriff.
“I jes’ wanter look at ’em agin.”
“Ye sha’n’t,” retorted the sheriff.
He did not reckon on the fact that although he, as sheriff, had the legal authority and control of the jail, the jailer was possessed of the material keys, and locked and unlocked the doors at will. He opened this one now, gingerly, and the men within felt the grin they could not see.
“Brung ’em hyar ’kase they couldn’t count,” he said, jocosely. “They air the fust boarders we hev hed fur sech ez that.”
The sheriff, who was holding a lamp in the hall, pulled the door to, still animated by his sense of duty, and the jury heard the lock click as the facile jailer turned the key.
“They ’lowed thar war a harnt in the jury-room,” said the officer.
Within all were silent, that they might hear.
“I ain’t s’prised none,” said the jailer; “plenty o’ harnts hyar. Men ez war hung, ye know,—liked our accommodations better’n them they got arterwards; that brings ’em back. Tim Jenkins war dragged right out’n that thar room whar the jury be now, when the lynchers kem an’ tuk him. Hed me tied down-steers, ye ’member.”