"This block you been tellin' about—how was it fastened to the dog?"
"Thar was a chain fastened to the block by a staple. The other end was fastened to the collar."
"How heavy do you think that block was?"
"About ten pound. I reckon."
"Five," broke in Old Man Thornycroft with a sneer.
Mr. Kirby turned to him. "You fetched it with you, didn't you? I told you to. It's evidence. Bob Kelley, go out to Mr. Thornycroft's buggy an' bring that block of wood into court."
The room was silent while the rural policeman was gone. Davy still stood in the cleared space before Mr. Kirby, his ragged overcoat on, his tattered hat in his hand, breathing fast, afraid to look at his mother. Everybody turned when Kelley came in with the block of wood. Everybody craned their necks to watch, while at the magistrate's order Kelley weighed the block of wood on the store's scales, which he put on the magistrate's table.
"Fo'teen punds," said Mr. Kirby. "Take the scales away."
"It had rubbed all the skin off'n the dog's neck," broke in Davy impulsively. "It was all raw an' bleedin'."
"Aw, that ain't so!" cried Thornycroft.