“Hello, Arn!” he said. “H’are you?”
“Hello!” Bruce returned, rather gruffly, shaking the hand his uncle held out. “What’s this the sheriff has just told me about a new trial?”
“It’s all right,” returned Old Hosie. “We’ve fought on till we’ve made ’em give it to us.”
“What’s the use of it?” Bruce growled. “The cards will be stacked the same as at the other trial.”
“Well, whatever happens, you’re free till then. I’ve got you out on bail, and I’m here to take you home with me. So come along with you.”
Old Hosie pushed him out and down the jail steps and into a closed carriage that was waiting at the curb. Bruce was in a glowering, embittered mood, as was but natural in a man who keenly feels that he has suffered without justice and has lost all for which he fought.
“You know I appreciate your working for the new trial,” he remarked dully, as the carriage rattled slowly on. “How did you manage it?”
“It’s too long a story for now. I’ll tell you when we get home.”
Bruce was gloomily silent for a moment.