“No, I never,” said Sol sulkily.
“Then how do you know this is it?”
“I tell you I seen it,” persisted Sol.
“Oh, you seen it!” repeated Hammer, sweeping the jury a cunning look as if to apprise them that he had found out just what he wanted to know, and that upon that simple admission he was about to turn the villainy of Sol Greening inside out for them to see with their own intelligent eyes.
“Yes, I said I seen it,” maintained Sol, bristling up a little.
“Yes, I heard you say it, and now I want you to tell this jury how you know!”
Hammer threw the last word into Sol’s face with a slam that made him jump. Sol turned red under the whiskers, around the whiskers, and all over the uncovered part of him. He shifted in his chair; he swallowed.
“Well, I don’t just know,” said he.
“No, you don’t–just–know!” sneered Hammer, glowing in oily triumph. He looked at the jury confidentially, as on the footing of a shrewd man with his equally shrewd audience.
Then he took up the old rifle, and Isom’s bloody coat and shirt, which were also there as exhibits, and dressed Sol down 256 on all of them, working hard to create the impression in the minds of the jurors that Sol Greening was a born liar, and not to be depended on in the most trivial particular.