One by one the articles were brought forward, and last of all from a back corner Farrington slowly dragged forth an iron box with a white cross mark upon it.
A shout of triumph rose from those who first beheld it, and then yells of derision.
"Order!" commanded the chairman.
"Is that Billy Fletcher's box?"
"Y-y-es."
"And you knew it was there all the time, and let Parson John get the blame for stealing it?"
"Y-y--es. B-b--ut fer God's sake have mercy! I--I--didn't mean to do it! I was o-only j-j--okin'! I intended to ex-p-plain everything."
There was an ominous movement among the bystanders, and those in the rear did some excited talking, while several left the building. Presently the sound of heavy blows was heard in the store-room adjoining the shop. Then a rush of feet ensued, and Farrington was suddenly caught and hurried forward. The light of a small lamp shed its feeble beams over the place, making it look more ghostly than ever. The intentions of his captors flashed into Farrington's mind. Standing there was a large cask of tar used for boats and the roofs of houses. The head had been smashed in, and the odour was pouring forth.
"Fer God's sake not that!" shrieked the wretched man. "Oh, help, help! Murder!"
But his cries were all in vain. Rough hands were laid upon him, his clothes were hurriedly ripped off, and he was lifted bodily, and lowered feet first into the black, slimy depth. He resisted, but it was useless. He was forced down upon his knees, and the tar covered him to his very ears. Silence reigned now in the room. They were determined men who were handling this nasty job, and with set mouths and intense grimness they watched the victim flounder about and then give up in despair.