"No,—well,—that is, not what would be called legal proof. I suppose. The circumstances were very strong against Blake at the time, but being all in the neighborhood, nobody liked to prosecute. For my part," said John Harmon, nobly, "I'd rather suffer wrong, than do wrong, and I preferred to lose the twenty dollars, to injuring Blake's private character."
The Assistant made a commendatory remark touching this generous sentiment, and passed over the letter. John Harmon wiped the perspiration from his brow, and felt relieved. Whether he was ashamed to confess his own gross carelessness in the matter, and the injustice of his charge, or whether—acting on the principle of doing evil that good might come from it, he determined to make the most of every point established against Blake, without regard to truth—does not plainly appear. We leave the affair to his own conscience.
The assistant meanwhile drew Ames' letter out of the "case." In his eagerness to grasp it, John Harmon dropped it upon
the floor. As he stooped to take it up, his eye caught a glimpse of a visitor who had just entered. John Harmon looked at the visitor, the visitor looked at John Harmon. John Harmon looked first red, then white; the visitor looked first very white, then very red. The delegate was the first to resume his self-possession.
"Well, friend Ames, how do you do?" said he, adroitly shifting the letter from his right hand to the left, and giving the former to the "Honorable" member.
"Very well! Capital!" replied Ames, nervously. "What's the news?"
"Nothing particular," said John Harmon, with a grim smile, sliding the letter into his hat. "Fine weather—Good deal of company at Washington, I find."