“Fellow citizens!” cries he, as soon as he has an opportunity of making himself heard, “I’m of the opinion, that there’s a doubt in this case; and I reckon we ought to give the accused the benefit of it—that is, till he be able to say his own say about it. It’s no use questioning him now, as ye all see. We have him tight and fast; and there’s not much chance of his getting clear—if guilty. Therefore, I move we postpone the trial, till—”
“What’s the use of postponing it?” interrupts a voice already loud for the prosecution, and which can be distinguished as that of Cassius Calhoun. “What’s the use, Sam Manly? It’s all very well for you to talk that way; but if you had a friend foully murdered—I won’t say cousin, but a son, a brother—you might not be so soft about it. What more do you want to show that the skunk’s guilty? Further proofs?”
“That’s just what we want, Captain Calhoun.”
“Cyan you give them, Misther Cashius Calhoun?” inquires a voice from the outside circle, with a strong Irish accent.
“Perhaps I can.”
“Let’s have them, then!”
“God knows you’ve had evidence enough. A jury of his own stupid countrymen—”
“Bar that appellashun!” shouts the man, who has demanded the additional evidence. “Just remember, Misther Calhoun, ye’re in Texas, and not Mississippi. Bear that in mind; or ye may run your tongue into trouble, sharp as it is.”
“I don’t mean to offend any one,” says Calhoun, backing out of the dilemma into which his Irish antipathies had led him; “even an Englishman, if there’s one here.”
“Thare ye’re welcome—go on!” cries the mollified Milesian.