“And Pat darling smiled, too, not so everlastingly politely, and said, ‘I’m sure they will—I’m sure of it. Four o’clock in the morning’s a good time too.’ And we decided that was as good a time as any and we went away from there. And here we are. And if you don’t look sharp they’ll have a jury before you understand why I know that Mr. Ives is the romantic type that lets realism get on his nerves. What number is that heading for the box now?”
“Otto Schultz!”
A cozy white-headed cherub trotted energetically up.
“Number 10, take your place in the box!”
“Josiah Morgan!”
“Gosh, they’ll get the whole panel in under an hour!” exulted the reporter. “Look at the fine hatchet face on Morgan, will you? I bet the fellow that tries to sell Josh a lame horse will live to rue the day.”
“Charles Stuyvesant!”
Charles Stuyvesant smiled pleasantly at the sheriff, his fine iron-gray head and trim shoulders standing out sharply against his overgroomed and undergroomed comrades in the box.
“Number 12, take your place in the box! You and each of you do solemnly swear that you will well and truly try Stephen Bellamy and Susan Ives, and a true verdict give according to the law and evidence, so help you God?”
Above the grave answering murmur the red-headed girl begged nervously, “What happens now?”