"I don't know anything about it—"
"O, the fool," here broke in the lawyer; "he's stultified, or he's lied to me. Here, 'John,' show this man the scars on your shoulder, and tell him the story you told me about it."
"What story?"
"Why the story about the fall in the carriage house."
"Why, I never told you any such story—did I? I told you I had a dream once; I suppose that is what you mean," said John, stripping himself meanwhile.
"There!" exclaimed the lawyer, "there are unmistakable marks; and they tell, of themselves, how they got there—cut with hatchel teeth."
And John, alias Frederic, roared out, with a well-feigned laugh, "Yes, hatchel teeth, in Bill Currier's coach-dog's mouth, down to Mobile!"
THE MISSOURI LAWYER OUTWITTED.
The lawyer looked confounded—and he put "John" through a severe re-examination; all to no avail, except to force John into some rather bold species of story-telling.