CHAPTER IV
Whatcheb say your name was?” demanded No. 8, aggressively.
“I didn't say,” said Sampson coolly. “Call me No. 3, if you don't mind. I'll answer to it.”
“Well, my name is Hooper, and that's what I want to be called.”
“I'm not going to call you anything,” said Sampson, turning away in his loftiest manner.
“Well, I guess it's just as well you don't,” snorted No. 8, sticking out his chest, and it wasn't a very obtrusive chest at that. Putting it back to where it normally belonged was a much less arduous job for No. 8 than sticking it out. He couldn't have stuck it out at all if he hadn't possessed the backing of ten men.
In short, the jury had been out for seven hours and the last ballot stood eleven to one for acquittal. Sampson was the unit.
No. 12 tried diplomacy. “Say, now, fellers, let's get together on this thing. We don't get anywhere by knockin' Mr. Sampson. He's got a right to think as he pleases, same as we have. So let's be calm and try to get together.”
“My God,” groaned No. 1, “can you beat that? Eleven of us have been together since five o'clock this afternoon, and you talk about being calm. Now, as foreman of this jury, I think I've got some right to be heard. You'll admit that, won't you, Mr. Sampson?”