“It seems that Johnny led you on and excited you to this?” said one of the jurors.
“I didn’t say that. I only said that he pointed to the man’s money-bag, and said——But what is it to you what Johnny said? I’m the man who did it. I speak for myself, and I’ll be hanged for myself.”
“All very good, Bob,” interposed the Alcalde; “but we can’t hang you without being sure you deserve it. What do you say to it, Mr Whyte? You’re the procurador—and you, Mr Heart and Mr Stone? Help yourselves to rum or brandy; and, Mr Bright and Irwin, take another cigar. They’re considerable tolerable the cigars—ain’t they? That’s brandy, Mr Whyte, in the diamond bottle.”
Mr Whyte had got up to give his opinion, as I thought; but I was mistaken. He stepped to the sideboard, took up a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other, every movement being performed with the greatest deliberation.
“Well, Squire,” said he, “or rather Alcalde—”
After the word “Alcalde,” he filled the glass half full of rum.
“If it’s as we’ve heard,” added he, pouring about a spoonful of water on the rum, “and Bob has killed the man”—he continued, throwing in some lumps of sugar—“murdered him”—he went on, crushing the sugar with a wooden stamp—“I rather calkilate”—here he raised the glass—“Bob ought to be hung,” he concluded, putting the tumbler to his mouth and emptying it.
The jurors nodded in silence. Bob drew a deep breath, as if a load were taken off his breast.
“Well,” said the judge, who did not look over well pleased, “if you all think so, and Bob is agreed, I calculate we must do as he wishes. I tell you, though, I don’t do it willingly. At any rate, we must find the dead man first, and examine Johnny. We owe that to ourselves and to Bob.”
“Certainly,” said the jury with one voice.