The witness got up somewhat stiffly, once more becoming a commonplace old man in a wrinkled black alpaca coat, and made his way back to his vacant place, now in the shadow of Aunt Tilly Haslett's form. As he passed along the front of the jury-box the foreman's crippled right hand came up in a sort of a clumsy salute, and the juror at the other end of the rear row--No. 12, the oldest juror--leaned forward as if to speak to him, but remembered in time where his present duty lay. The old judge kept on until he came to Durham's side, and he whispered to him: “Son, they've quit lookin' at him and they're all a-lookin' at her. Son, rest your case.” Durham came out of a maze. “Your Honor,” he said as he rose, “the defense rests.” The jury were out only six minutes. Mr. Lukins insisted that it was only five minutes and a half, and added that he'd be dad-rotted if it was a second longer than that. As the lately accused Tandy came out of the courthouse with his imported lawyer--Aunt Tilly bringing up the rear with his trembling, weeping, happy little wife--friendly hands were outstretched to clasp his and a whiskered old gentleman with a thumbnail like a Brazil nut grabbed at his arm. “Whichaway did Billy Priest go?” he demanded--“little old Fightin' Billy--whar did he go to? Soon as he started in talkin' I placed him. Whar is he?” Walking side by side, Tandy and Durham came down the steps into the soft June night, and Tandy took a long, deep breath into his lungs. “Mr. Durham,” he said, “I owe a great deal to you.” “How's that?” said Durham. Just ahead of them, centered in a shaft of light from the window of the barroom of the Drummers' Home Hotel, stood Judge Priest. The old judge had been drinking. The pink of his face was a trifle more pronounced, the high whine in his voice a trifle weedier, as he counted one by one certain pieces of silver into the wide-open palm of a saddle-colored negro. “How's that?” said Durham. “I say I owe everything in the world to you,” repeated Tandy. “No,” said Durham, “what you owe me is the fee you agreed to pay me for defending you. There's the man you're looking for.” And he pointed to the old judge. II. THE COUNTY TROT SATURDAY was the last day of the county fair and the day of the County Trot. It was also Veterans' Day, when the old soldiers were the guests of honor of the management, and likewise Ladies' Day, which meant that all white females of whatever age were admitted free. So naturally, in view of all these things, the biggest day of fair week was Saturday.