This impanelling of the jury was not interesting to the crowd. Many had no hint of its deeper meaning. Others saw it in the light of child’s play—a certain braggadocio on the part of the young lawyer. They wanted the actual show to begin—the examination of witnesses. They came and went restlessly, impatiently waiting. Wiser heads than theirs knew that the game was already on in deadly earnest. If these had been lucky enough to get seats in the small and overcrowded court-room, they remained glued to them. They were waiting to see what manner of men would be chosen—Jesse’s peers—to pass judgment on his acts and mete out for him just deserts—if they were capable of a just verdict. The square-jawed, keen-witted, clean-cut captain of justice, who had forgotten that the campaign had aged him irrevocably and that some whitened hair would never grow brown again, meant that they should be capable. The opposing lawyers smiled tolerantly at the numerous challenges. These smiles went far to convince many of the infallibility of their defence. Amused tolerance is a powerful weapon on more fields than one where men war with their wits. It is a wise man who cultivates the art.
“We have chosen the right man,” whispered Langford to Mary. They had secured seats near the front and were of those who knew the game was being played.
“He is great,” returned Mary. If only her father could be there to help! The odds were fearful. Louise, sitting at her table within the bar, with faith in this man’s destiny sufficient to remove mountains, smiled down at her friends.
“Louise is an angel,” said Mary, affectionately.
“Yes, she is,” responded Langford, absently, for he was not looking at the girl reporter, nor were his thoughts on her side of the rail. He wished for the sake of Williston’s “little girl” that there were not so much tobacco stench in the room. But this was a vague and intangible wish. He wished with the whole strength of his manhood—which was much—that this man on trial might be made to pay the penalty of his crime as a stepping-stone to paying the penalty of that greater crime of which he firmly believed him guilty. His own interest had become strangely secondary since that hot July day when he had pledged himself to vengeance. This falling off might have dated from a certain September morning when he had lost himself—for all time—to a girl with pain-pinched face and fever-brightened eyes who wore a blue wrapper. His would not be a personal triumph now, if he won.
Court adjourned that evening with the jury-box filled. The State’s friends were feeling pretty good about it. Langford made his way into the bar where Gordon was standing apart. He passed an arm affectionately over his friend’s shoulder.
“You were inspired, Dick,” he said. “Keep on the same as you have begun and we shall have everything our own way.”
But the fire had died down in the young lawyer’s bearing.
“I’m tired, Paul, dead tired,” he said, wearily. “I wish it were over.”
“Come to supper—then you’ll feel better. You’re tired out. It is a tough strain, isn’t it?” he said, cheerily. He was not afraid. He knew the fire would burn the brighter again when there was need of it—in the morning.