"Nice witnesses they would be."
"But the coppers _know_ I'm a straight man."
"They would hardly come to speak for you. It's someone from Portland would give you a character. But you know you fired the shot."
"At a screech-owl, my lord, at a screech-owl, my lord, that was flying across the street. You don't suppose, my lord, I'd go and round on a pal of Mr. Timmons's and my own?"
Timmons glared at him. "But the man is dead, and someone shot him."
"Well, my lord, except Mr. Timmons--and to save him I risked my own life, and would lay it down, and am ready to lay it down now or any time it may please your lordship--unless Mr. Timmons goes into the box and swears my life away, you can prove nothing against me, my lord."
"After all," said Timmons, looking through half-closed critical eyes at Stamer, "after all, the man has some brains."
"And a straight man for a friend in Mr. John Timmons."
"Yes, Stamer, you have."
Stamer stood up and approached Timmons. "You'll shake hands on that, Mr. Timmons?"