A red-haired Irishman, with one eyebrow higher than the other, and scars on his face, walked into the alderman's court from the private room, and was sworn.
"Donovan," spoke Duff Salter, standing up, "relate the occurrences of a certain night when you rowed the prisoner, Andrew Zane, and certain other persons, from Treaty Island to an uncertain point in the River Delaware."
"Stop! stop!" exclaimed Calvin Van de Lear, rising. "It seems to me I have seen that fellow's face before. Donovan, hadn't you a wooden leg when last I saw you?"
"No doubt of it," answered the Irishman.
"Why haven't you got it on now?" cried Calvin, scowling.
"Because, yer riverence, me own legs was plenty good enough on this occasion."
"Now, now, I won't!" ordered the sententious little magistrate.
"Proceed with the narrative," cried Duff Salter, "and repeat no part of the conversation in that boat."
"It was a dark and lowering night," said the waterman, "as we swung loose from Traity Isle. I sat a little forward of the cintre, managing the oars. Mr. Andrew Zane was in the bow, on the watch for difficulties. In the stern sat the boss, Mr. William Zane. Between him and me—God's rest to him!—sat the murdered gintleman, well-beloved Saylor Rainey! The tide was running six miles an hour. We steered by the lights of Kinsington."
"Then you are confident," said Duff Salter, "that the whole length of the skiff separated William Zane from his son?"