"Miss Kirkwood, may I trouble you to tell the jury whether you ever rode in the car of this particular motorman?" he asked.
"No, sir," replied Phil.
"You never saw him before, and after all you're not sure he's the man who was in charge of that car that day, are you?"
Phil dangled the cardcase from her white-gloved fingers carelessly.
"Perfectly confident of it," she answered.
"If you are sure of it, will you kindly tell the jury just how it is you remember him—how you identify him as the motorman on this car on that particular afternoon?"
"Oh! Do you really want me to tell that?" asked Phil.
"Answer the question!" the attorney returned sharply, misreading her apparent reluctance.
"Why," began Phil, speaking rapidly and distinctly and turning toward the jurors,—"why, it's because I had noticed him all that summer passing our house and he always ran faster than the other motormen,—you could tell his car at night if you didn't see it because it ran so fast,—and he's the same man who ran into Bernstein's delivery wagon—the one with the lame horse—at the corner of Monon Street about a week before the Fourth of July. I saw that, too!"
"If Your Honor please," said Waterman, rising as the court ruled that Phil's last answer, which the defendant's counsel had sought vainly to interrupt, should be stricken out, "the plaintiff rests. We will waive argument in this case," he added impressively, putting from him, with unprecedented self-denial, the chance of pillorying the unfeeling defendant corporation.