Old Sam pulled an enormous plug of navy tobacco from his hip pocket, tore off a liberal portion with his teeth, rolled the immense quid over in his mouth several times, and then, looking earnestly at Jack as if to measure him in his mind, said:
"Jack, Bradford's been telling me some mighty queer stories. Ike Podgett a murderer? I don't believe a word of it. He," jerking his thumb toward Bradford, "wanted me to come over and hear your statement, which I agreed to; but I tell you beforehand, the proofs will have to be clear as Holy Writ to convince me that Ike Podgett knows what has become of Jemuel Knaggs any more than me and Tom here does."
"The Judge" was not always a rigid follower of the rules laid down by Lindley Murray in the construction of his sentences, therefore frequently got the cases of his pronouns mixed, although he was a college graduate; but he generally talked fairly correctly.
"Let's hear your story," continued he; "tell us what you know, and how you know, as you have asserted to Bradford that Ike Podgett killed Jemuel Knaggs."
"Waal," commenced Jack, leaving his place at the window, rising to his full height, stretching out his long arms, giving a tremendous yawn as he did so; then moving his chair to the end of the table between the two men, who had seated themselves on opposite sides, their feet of course on top, where, resting his elbows on it, his immense paws supporting his shaggy head, Jack looked his interlocutor squarely in the eyes, and continued:
"Waal, yer knows, sence I war satisfied that I war a-bein' watched an' hounded an' 'spected by you-uns hyar in Whoopin' Holler, I 'lowed ter myself thet I would do a leetle detective work on my own 'count—ez I hev told Bradford hyar. So I gits onto my mule, tuks Jupe—thet's thet thar yaller, no-'count, ornery dorg o' mine—an' we jes' nat'rally comminces ter prowl thet thar trail from t'other side o' Ike Podgett's 'twixt thar an' ther Holler, fer more'n er week. But we-uns didn't see nothin' 'spicious till day afore yisterday, 'long in ther shank o' ther evenin'. Then I war ridin' by Podgett's place—Jupe hed run 'way 'head o' me—I war goin' toler'ble slow an' thinkin' powerful; an' w'en I got clos't ter ther cabin, I seed thet thar fool dorg o' mine er diggin' an' er pawin' et suthin' he hed unyearthed. Ther no-'count cuss is always hungry an' always huntin' fer suthin ter eat. Then ez I obsarved thar warn't no one ter home, I gits down offen my mule, hitches him, an' lights out fer ther r'ar o' ther cabin whar ther dorg war, ter see w'at he war so consarned 'bout; an' w'en I reached thar, gentlemin, et war a human leg and foot. An' stoopin' down, I picked this hyar outen ther dirt ther dorg hed pawed up!"
Getting up from his seat as he said this, Jack pulled out of the breast-pocket of his flannel shirt a little mass of iron pyrites, an octahedrite in shape—a rare form of that common combination of iron and sulphur—which was drilled onto a plate of gold, making it a perfect but unique collar-button.
"Great God!" exclaimed Bartlett and Bradford simultaneously, as they both jumped up excitedly at the sight of the trinket Jack held in his hand.
Tom Bradford gave vent to his feelings first. Slapping his fist on the table, and then pointing his finger at Jack, who stood as calm as a statue, said vehemently:
"Judge Bartlett, either this man's story is true, or he is the murderer himself!"