"I've knowed it a long time," said I coldly. "What is it?"
"This lawsuit," said Hank—"is it over, or still running?"
"It's still running," I said. "Listen at the machinery rumble up there. It's all over but the shouting, and we've got a man hired to do that. Why?"
They never said a word, but scooted up the stairs. I strolled in and found Mac's machinery throwed out of gear by Hank's interruption. Hen was still collapsed, and didn't see Hank. Mac turned grandly to the judge, and told him that a witness he had been laboring to secure the attendance of from outside the jurisdiction had blowed in, and he wanted the case reopened. Smythe rose buoyantly into the air and hooted, but Brockway coldly reopened the case, and Hank was sworn. The juror that wrote on his cuff looked disgusted, but he wrote Hank's name and age with the rest of his notes.
"Where do you live?" asked Mac.
"South Dakota," answered Hank.
"Examine 'Exhibit A,'" said Mac proudly, handing Hank the note, "and tell the jury when if ever you have seen it before!"
"When it was signed," said Hank.
Old Hen kind of straightened up. Fanny sat down by him, and put her arm about him. She sure did look pretty.
"Who signed that note?" asked Mac, with his voice swelling like a double B-flat bass tuba.