The farmer complied.
"The case looks ugly," said the writer, as he handed back the jug. "These witnesses would hang a calendared saint of a hundred miracles. Are any tramps in the habit of coming about you?"
"Too many."
"Do you know any of them?"
"Scarcely—not by name."
"Any women?—never mind the men," said the writer impatiently.
"Yes; there is one who used to come often; she sold small things."
"Is that all you know of her? Has she no mark, man? Is her nose long or short? no squint, lame leg, or pock-pits?"
"She had usually a small cage, in which she kept a couple of white mice."
"White mice!" ejaculated the writer; "never was a better mark."