“Ichabod Jones,” replied the prisoner; “at least, that’s what he told me.”
“How did you always address him?”
“I always called him Ike.”
“You may tell the court just what you said in this alleged confession.”
“I didn’t make no confession. I said to the captain, ‘Don’t put me through no third degree. Ike killed him.’”
And, for all that the prosecuting attorney could prove to the contrary, Ike did.
THE IDYL
By Joseph F. Whelan
Let us have a day of idyl, you and I,
Upon some mountain-top, with no one by
Save birds and flowers and waving trees that sigh,
And crooning winds whose lyrics never die.
The Poet handed it to the Girl, with rather a quizzical smile. They did not know each other. He had seen her walking along one of the park paths, and the loneliness of her face stopped him. She read the verse, then gazed at him a few seconds, half amused, half annoyed, then wholly joyous. He read compliance in her eyes.