“A great many innocent men have confessed under the third degree,” and young Preston bowed rather too formally and turned on his heel.
“He’ll get the chair if you fight the case,” snapped the District Attorney.
“He’ll get the chair—or liberty, sir,” was all young Preston replied, and he hurried over to the jail, where he was secluded in the cell with his client, the prisoner.
It wasn’t much of a story the prisoner told. He said his name was Farral, that he was a plain hobo, and that with another hobo he had got into a fight with a freight brakeman who wouldn’t let them jump the train. Both picked up lumps of coal to defend themselves, and in the mix-up the poor brakeman’s skull was crushed. He managed to shoot and kill the other hobo, but he died before they got him to the hospital.
Young Preston said nothing, for five minutes. Farral became nervous. Finally he said:
“Say, kid, I ain’t blamin’ you any. You gotter have your first case some time, and so they wished you on me. The only thing to do is to plead guilty to self-defense——”
“Never do,” said young Preston. “There isn’t a juryman in the county who would agree to justifiable homicide.”
“But I confessed, kid; I confessed. Whatcher goin’ to do about it now?”
“Just what did you say? Give me the exact words.”
“I says to the captain, ‘Don’t put me through no third degree. I killed him!’”