“Gimme a match,” said he. “I’ve gotter have a cigarette. Hold on, I got one.”
He lit it. In the flare I saw it was the red-haired, freckled reporter and his green eyes was all alive again.
Before I could stop him, he had pushed his way ahead of me into the Judge’s study and was at the instrument.
“A line!” he gasped. “I want New York.”
He was snapping at his cigarette like a wild thing, and, along with his perspiration, ashes and sparks were dropping on the rug.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I lost my prey!”
“What!” said I.
“Acquittal,” said he. “The Judge was too damned conscientious in his charge to the jury.—Come on, there, New York! Confound you, come on! I’ve got to relay a message through to my paper.”
“Acquittal?” I asked, trembling like a horse.
“Acquittal,” he roared into the instrument. “This is Roddy. Five hours out. Interview with Dugan, juryman, local plumber. Says strict charge of judge did it. Prisoner gone down to River Flats with counsel. Drinking with Fred Magurk in kitchen barroom. Refuses to talk. Rest of story already gone by telegraph.”