David came up close to the jury and, as he addressed them, he seemed to be oblivious of the presence of any one else in the room. It was as though he were telling them, his friends, something he alone knew, and that he was sure of their belief in his statements. "For all the world," thought M'ri, listening, "as he used to tell stories when he was a boy. He'd fairly make you believe they were true." To be sure the jury were all his friends; they had known him when he was little "barefoot Dave Dunne." Still, they were captivated by this new oratory, warm, vivid, and inspiring, delivered to the accompaniment of dulcet and seductive tones that transported them into an enchanted world. Their senses were stirred in the same way they would be if a flag were unfurled. "Sounds kind o' like orgin music," whispered Miss Rhody. Yet underneath the eloquence was a logical simplicity, a keen sifting of facts, the exposure of flaws in the circumstantial evidence. There was a force back of what he said like the force back of the projectile. About the form of the hardened sinner, Miggs, David drew a circle of innocence that no one ventured to cross. Simply, convincingly, and concisely he summed up, with a forceful appeal to their intelligence, their honor, and their justice. The reply by the assistant to the prosecutor was perfunctory and ineffective. The charge of the judge was neutral. The jury left the room, and were out eight and one-quarter minutes. As they filed in, the foreman sent a triumphant telepathic message to David before he quietly drawled out: "Not guilty, yer Honor." The first movement was from Mrs. Miggs. And she came straight to David, not to the jury. "David," said the Judge, who had cleared his throat desperately and wiped his glasses carefully, at the look in the eyes of the young lawyer when they had rested on the defendant's wife, "hereafter our office will be the refuge for all the riffraff in the country." This was his only comment, but the Judge did not hesitate to turn over any case to him thereafter. When David had added a few more victories to his first one, Jud made one of his periodical diversions by an offense against the law which was far more serious in nature than his previous misdeeds had been. M'ri came out to the farm to discuss the matter. "Barnabas, Martin thinks you had better let the law take its course this time. He says it's the only procedure left untried to reform Jud. He is sure he can get a light sentence for him--two years." "M'ri," said Barnabas, in a voice vibrating with reproach, "do you want Jud to go to prison?" M'ri paled. "I want to do what is best for him, Barnabas. Martin thinks it will be a salutary lesson." "I wonder, M'ri," said Barnabas slowly, "if the Judge had a son of his own, he would try to reform him by putting him behind bars." "Oh, Barnabas!" protested M'ri, with a burst of tears. "He's still my boy, if he is wild, M'ri."