“I'm all right,” said Sampson coldly. “You see I'm not as hard-hearted as you thought. Now, gentlemen, I shall not attempt to argue with you. I shall not attempt to persuade you to look at the case from my point of view. As a matter of fact, I am rather well pleased with the attitude you've taken. The trouble is that it isn't going to help the poor old man. All we can do is to disagree, and that means he will have to be tried all over again, perhaps after many months of confinement. I should like to ask you—all of you—a few rather pointed questions, and I'd like to have square and fair answers from you. What do you say to that?”
“Fire away,” said the foreman.
“It's one o'clock,” said No. 7. “Supposin' we wait till after breakfast.”
“Gawd, I'm sleepy,” groaned No. 12.
“No,” said the foreman firmly; “let's hear what Mr. Sampson has to say. He's got a lot of good common sense and he won't ask foolish questions. They'll be important, believe me.”
They all settled hack in their chairs, wearily, drearily.
“All right. Go ahead,” sighed the chubby bachelor. “I'll answer any question except 'what'll you have to drink,' and I'll answer that to-morrow.”
Sampson hesitated. He was eyeing No. 7 in a retrospective sort of way. No. 7 shifted in his chair and succeeded in banishing the dreamy, faraway look in his eyes.
“Assuming,” began the speaker, “that we were trying a low-browed, undershot ruffian instead of James W. Hildebrand, and the evidence against him was identical with that which we have been listening to, would you disregard it and accept his statement instead?”
“The case ain't parallel,” said No. 8. “His face wouldn't be James W. Hildebrand's, and you can bank a lot on a feller's face, Mr. Sampson.”