"If the Court please," began Beekman, his face pale, and his voice trembling with surprise and disappointment, "we move to set aside the verdict and for a new trial on the ground that the verdict is against the weight of evidence, against the charge of the Court, contrary to...."
A heavy hand was laid upon Beekman's arm.
"Hold on there! I want that jury polled!" The speaker of these words was Peter V. Wilkinson; for this trial was his trial; and this verdict was the verdict in his case. "Morehead, get 'em to poll that jury!" Again he spoke as one accustomed to command, and not as a prisoner before the bar.
"Poll the jury," directed the Court.
The clerk started to obey.
"Now, Morehead," went on Wilkinson in a hoarse whisper, "I want you to place in my hands—my hands, you understand—the name and address of every mother's son upon that jury. I won't forget 'em, let me tell you that."
"John T. Wyatt," droned the clerk.
And Wyatt, juror, stiffened for an instant, hesitated, and then taking a big grip on himself, answered as his foreman had: "Guilty." Every man in the box made the same answer; but as every man voiced his verdict, he met the sullen, defiant, vengeful gaze of a man who never forgot, who never forgave, and each man felt that instant as if, somehow, he were in the tightening grasp of the big millionaire at the counsel table.
"Now make your motions, Beekman," whispered Morehead.
And Beekman made a motion to set aside the verdict; made a motion in arrest of judgment; made a motion for a new trial.