“Yes, for killing Johnny Bateman. He’s applied for a new trial, and the court has just been heard from. Raker’s gone to find out. If he can’t get the hearing, it’s the gallows; and I—”
“Oh, Amos, no! that would be too awful! Not you!”
“—I’d rather resign the office, if it wouldn’t seem like sneaking. Ah!” A rap at the door made Amos leap to his feet. In the rap, so muffled, so hesitating, sounded the diffidence of the bearer of bad news. “If that’s Raker,” groaned Amos, “it’s all up, for that ain’t his style of knock!”
Raker it was, and his face ran his tidings ahead of him.
“They refused a new trial?” said Amos.
“Yes, they have,” exploded Raker. “Oh, damn sech justice! And he’s only got three days before the execution. And it’s here! Oh, ain’t it h—?”
“Yes, it is,” said Amos, “but you needn’t say so here before ladies.” He motioned to the portrait and to Ruth, who had leaned out from her chair, listening with a pale, attentive face.
“Please excuse me, ladies,” said Raker, absently; “I’m kinder off my base this morning. You see, Amos, my wife she says if hanging Sol is my duty I’ve jest got to resign, for she won’t live with no hangman. She’s terrible upset.”
“It ain’t your duty; it’s mine,” said Amos.