“Where do you work?”
“Faith, I worked for the Valley Breaker Coal Company this tin years come next St. Patrick’s day, may it plase the coort, an’ bad ’cess to the man that burnt it, I say, an’”—
“Challenge!” interrupted Attorney Pleadwell, sharply.
A tipstaff hurried the challenged man from the witness-box, in a state of helpless bewilderment as to what it all meant, and another juror was called, a small, wiry man, chewing on a mouthful of tobacco. He was sworn on his voir dire, and the district attorney asked him,—
“Do you belong to an organization known as the Molly Maguires?”
“No, sir!” quickly responded the man, before Pleadwell could interpose an objection to the question.
The district attorney looked at the witness sharply for a moment, then consulted with Attorney Summons, who sat by his side as private counsel for the prosecution. They believed that the man had sworn falsely, in order to get on the jury in behalf of the defendant, and he was directed to stand aside.
The next juror called was a farmer from a remote part of the county, who had heard nothing about the fire until he arrived in town, and who displayed no prejudices. He was accepted by both sides as the first juror in the case.
So the selection went on, slowly and tediously, enlivened at times by an amusing candidate for the jury-box, or a tilt between counsel; and long before the “twelve good men and true” had all been selected and sworn, the early autumn night had fallen, and the flaring gas-jets lighted up the space about the bench and bar, leaving the remote corners of the court-room in uncertain shadow.