“I'm willing to go half way,” said No. 7 dreamily. “Hungry as I am, I'll go half way. I've got the darnedest headache on earth. If I had a cup of coffee maybe I'd—”
“What do you mean half way?” exploded Mr. Hooper. “You can't render a half-way verdict, can you?”
The ballot had just been taken. It stood eleven to one for conviction! This time No. 7 was the unit.
“No,” said the dreamy No. 7, unoffended. “What I want to do is to make it as light for him as possible. Can't we find him guilty of embezzlement in the third degree or—” Sampson interrupted. He too wanted his coffee. “Let's have our breakfast. Afterwards we can discuss—”
“I want to settle it now,” roared Mr. Hooper. “It's all nonsense talking about breakfast while—”
“Well, then,” said Sampson, “suppose we agree to find him guilty as charged and recommend him to the mercy of the Court.”
This was hailed with acclaim. Even No. 7, emerging temporarily from his mental siesta, agreed that that was “a corking idea.”
“Find him guilty,” he explained, satisfying himself at least, “and then ask the Court to discharge him. Maybe a little lecture would do him good. A few words of advice—”
“And now, gentlemen,” broke in Sampson crisply, “since we have reached the conclusion that we are trying Mr. Hildebrand and not Miss Hildebrand, perhaps we would better have our coffee.”
At ten o'clock the jury filed into the courtroom and took their places in the box. Each was conscious of what he was sure must look like a ten days' growth of beard, and each wore the stem, implacable look that is best described as “hang-dog.”