Henry stepped into the office, leaned against his desk and gave way to his emotions. Judge sat down, bent over as though in prayer, and groaned painfully, “I—I can’t stand it! As long as I live, I shall never forget what I just witnessed.”
Henry managed to fall into his deskchair, his moon-like face glistening with tears.
“Ay vill be dorned! Did somet’ng go wrong, Hanry,” said Oscar Johnson soberly.
“Something,” choked Henry, “went just right, Oscar.”
“Das is gude,” said Oscar. “Ay vill get de yug.”
They had finished their drink, when John Campbell came in. The big, good-natured prosecutor, looked at the tin-cups and smiled but shook his head. He had experienced a drink of Frijole’s brew, and wanted none of it.
“I just came up from Doctor Bogart’s place, where Mr. Akers and Mr. Pelly were consulting medical science,” he said.
“O-o-o-oh!” said the surprised Henry. “And what ails them?”
“That seems problematical, Henry,” laughed the lawyer. “Their testimony is contradictory. Mr. Akers is of the opinion that he must have slipped, while Mr. Pelly favors an attack theory. However, Mr. Akers does not remember any attack.”
“And what was Doctor Bogart’s diagnosis, John?”