The prosecutor threw off his friendly manner like a rustic flinging his coat for a fight. He stepped to the foot of the dais on which the witness chair stood, and aimed his finger at Joe’s face.
“What were you carrying in your hand?” he demanded, advancing his finger a little with every word, as if it held the key to the mystery, and it was about to be inserted in the lock.
“Nothing, sir.”
“What had you hidden in that room that you wanted a light to find?”
Ha, he’s coming down to it now! whispered the people, turning wise looks from man to man. Uncle Posen Spratt set his horn trumpet to his ear, gave it a twist and settled the socket of it so firmly that not a word could leak out on the way.
“I hadn’t hidden anything, sir,” said Joe.
“Where did Isom Chase keep his money?”
“I don’t know.”
“Had you ever seen him putting any of it away around the barn, or in the haystack, maybe?”
“No, I never did, sir,” Joe answered, respectfully.