"John Richling!" He came. "Stand there!" Some one is in the witness-stand, speaking. The prisoner partly hears, but does not see. He stands and holds the rail, with his eyes fixed vacantly on the clerk, who bends over his desk under the seat of justice, writing. The lawyers notice him. His dress has been laboriously genteel, but is torn and soiled. A detective, with small eyes set close together, and a nose like a yacht's rudder, whisperingly calls the notice of one of these spectators who can see the prisoner's face to the fact that, for all its thinness and bruises, it is not a bad one. All can see that the man's hair is fine and waving where it is not matted with blood. The testifying officer had moved as if to leave the witness-stand, when the recorder restrained him by a gesture, and, leaning forward and looking down upon the prisoner, asked:-- "Have you anything to say to this?" The prisoner lifted his eyes, bowed affirmatively, and spoke in a low, timid tone. "May I say a few words to you privately?" "No." He dropped his eyes, fumbled with the rail, and, looking up suddenly, said in a stronger voice, "I want somebody to go to my wife--in Prieur street. She is starving. This is the third day"-- "We're not talking about that," said the recorder. "Have you anything to say against this witness's statement?" The prisoner looked upon the floor and slowly shook his head. "I never meant to break the law. I never expected to stand here. It's like an awful dream. Yesterday, at this time, I had no more idea of this--I didn't think I was so near it. It's like getting caught in machinery." He looked up at the recorder again. "I'm so confused"--he frowned and drew his hand slowly across his brow--"I can hardly--put my words together. I was hunting for work. There is no man in this city who wants to earn an honest living more than I do." "What's your trade?" "I have none." "I supposed not. But you profess to have some occupation, I dare say. What's your occupation?" "Accountant." "Hum! you're all accountants. How long have you been out of employment?" "Six months." "Why did you go to sleep under those steps?" "I didn't intend to go to sleep. I was waiting for a friend to come in who boards at the St. Charles." A sudden laugh ran through the room. "Silence in court!" cried a deputy. "Who is your friend?" asked the recorder. The prisoner was silent. "What is your friend's name?" Still the prisoner did not reply. One of the group of pettifoggers sitting behind him leaned forward, touched him on the shoulder, and murmured: "You'd better tell his name. It won't hurt him, and it may help you." The prisoner looked back at the man and shook his head. "Did you strike this officer?" asked the recorder, touching the witness, who was resting on both elbows in the light arm-chair on the right. The prisoner made a low response. "I don't hear you," said the recorder.