They're bound to get me."
"I wish there were time to hear your side."
"But, Frona, I am innocent. I--"
"S-sh!" She laid her hand on his arm to hush him, and turned her
attention to the witness.
"So the noospaper feller, he fight like anything; but Pierre and me, we
pull him into the shack. He cry and stand in one place--"
"Who cried?" interrupted the prosecuting lawyer.
"Him. That feller there." The Scandinavian pointed directly at St.
Vincent. "And I make a light. The slush-lamp I find spilt over most
everything, but I have a candle in my pocket. It is good practice to
carry a candle in the pocket," he affirmed gravely. "And Borg he lay
on the floor dead. And the squaw say he did it, and then she die, too."
"Said who did it?"
Again his accusing finger singled out St. Vincent. "Him. That feller
there."
"Did she?" Frona whispered.
"Yes," St. Vincent whispered back, "she did. But I cannot imagine what
prompted her. She must have been out of her head."
The warm-faced man in the faded mackinaws then put the witness through
a searching examination, which Frona followed closely, but which
elicited little new.
"You have the right to cross-examine the witness," the chairman
informed St. Vincent. "Any questions you want to ask?"
The correspondent shook his head.
"Go on," Frona urged.
"What's the use?" he asked, hopelessly.
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