“Hang on to Pete, and I will tell you,” said Jinnie.
“I’m hangin’ to ’im,” sighed Bobbie, touching Pete’s shaggy forelock. “Tell me about the chair.”
Jinnie was searching her brain for an argument to satisfy him. She wouldn’t have lied for her own welfare—but 259 for Bobbie—she could feel the weak, small heart palpitating against her arm.
“Well, in the first place,” she began deliberately, “Peg doesn’t know everything about murders. Why, Bobbie, they don’t do anything at all to men like Lafe. Why, a cobbler, dear, a cobbler could kill everybody in the whole world if he liked.”
Bobbie’s breath was sent out in one long exclamation of wonder.
“A cobbler,” went on Jinnie impressively, “could steal loaves of bread right under a great judge’s nose and he couldn’t do anything to him.”
Jinnie had made a daring speech, such a splendid one; she wanted to believe it herself.
“Tell me more,” chirped Bobbie. “What about the death chair, Jinnie?”
She had nursed the hope that the boy would be satisfied with what she had already told him, but she proceeded in triumphant tones:
“Oh, you mean the chair Peg was speaking about, huh? Sure I know all about that.... There isn’t anything I don’t know about it.... I know more’n all the judges and preachers put together.”