“‘Fact is, may it please your Honor,’ said Mr. Deediddle, ‘the sheriff has just stepped over to Mr. Dick Sninkle’s saloon to get a glass of water.’
“A smile might have been seen on the faces of a majority of the spectators—they all knew that water did not agree with the sheriff. The officer soon made his appearance, and the judge asked him why he had neglected to return the writ.
“‘The writ commanded me to bring the body of Edward Demar before the court, and here he is; what else could I do?’
“‘Mr. Clerk,’ said Flaxback, ‘enter a fine of ten dollars against Mr. Postholder, for failing to return the writ, and unless the return is instantly made, the fine will be doubled.’
“The sheriff was so badly confused that he did not know what he was about; he cast an imploring look at the clerk, made a dash at a pile of papers on the clerk’s desk, then looked up at the ceiling, like an old duck listening for thunder when her puddle had gone dry.
“While all this nonsense was being exhibited, I was sitting there suffering indescribable torture; every moment of time seemed to be worth a mint of money to me, yet it was being wasted by those people as if it were valueless. There is no telling when the farce would have ended, but for Harry’s thoughtfulness. He took the writ, and in three minutes wrote out the return and requested the sheriff to sign it, which he was very glad to do; he would have signed his own death warrant then without objection. Mr. Deediddle now made a raid to the front, and began to address the court.
“‘Fact is, your Honor, it is unnecessary to enter into an investigation of the circumstances connected with the murder of Mr. Clanton, as this is purely a question of personal identity. If the prisoner at the bar is not Edward Debar, why of course he will be discharged—fact, sir—fact.’
“The district attorney consented that the investigation might be confined to the question of personal identity.
“‘Swear your witness, Mr. Clerk,’ growled the judge.
“The clerk began to hunt for the Bible.