His objections had the effect of congregating them in the middle of the room, where the discussion began, most of them lighting their pipes, and tilting their chairs on the hind legs. Two or three lifted their feet to the giddy eminence of the backs of other chairs; several stretched themselves at lank, ungainly length upon the benches. They were mostly young or middle-aged men; the senior of the party being a farmer of fifty, with a pointed, shaven chin, newly sprouting with a bristly beard, over which he often passed his hand with a meditative gesture. His eyes were downcast; he leaned his elbows on his knees; his mien was depressed, not to say afflicted. “I ain’t hearn ten words together,” he remarked. “I never knowed when they lef’ off, sca’cely, bein’ so all-fired oneasy an’ beset ’bout them cattle o’ mine.” He turned to explain to the new juror whom they had taken on that morning. “Ben Doaks hed my cattle a-summerin’ of ’em up on Piomingo Bald, an’ when the cattle war rounded up I went thar ter pick out mine, an’ I druv ’em down an’ got ez far ez Shaftesville, an’ I let ’em go on with Bob, my son, ’bout fifteen year old. An’ I stopped hyar ter git a drink an’ hear a leetle news. An’ durned ef they didn’t ketch me on the jury! An’ Bob dunno what’s kem o’ me, an’ I dunno what’s kem o’ Bob an’ the cattle, nor how fur they hed traveled along the road ’fore they fund out I warn’t comin’ arter.” “Waal, I reckon they be all right,” said the new man, a hunter from the mountains, just come into town with game to sell. “Lord knows! _I_ don’t!” said the old fellow, sighing over the futility of speculation. “Ef Bob war ter draw the idee ez I got hurt, or robbed, or scrimmagin’ in them town grog-shops,—I hev always been tellin’ him a all-fired pack o’ lies ’bout the dangers in sech places, bein’ ez I warn’t willin’ ter let him go whar I’d go myself,—he’d leave them cattle a-standin’ thar in the road, an’ kem back ter town ter s’arch fur me. He hain’t got much ’speriunce, an’ he ain’t ekal ter keerin’ fur them cattle. They’ll stray, an’ I’ll never see ’em agin.” “I reckon they hev strayed back ter the mountings by this time; must be wilder ’n bucks, ef they hev been out all summer,” suggested a broad-faced twinkling-eyed young fellow, with a jocose wink at the others. “Bob dozes, too; sorter sleepy-headed, ye know,” said the old man, taking note of all the contingencies. “I hev seen him snooze in the saddle, ef the cattle war slow. He’s growin’, an’ runs mighty hard, an’ ef he sets still, he falls off. Ef he got tired, he’s apt ter lie down in a fence-corner ter rest; an’ he mought go ter sleep thar, an’ somebody mought toll the cattle off. Or else he mought ax somebody ter keer fur the cattle till he could kem back an’ find me. Lord A’mighty, thar’s no yearthly tellin’ what Bob mought do!” “Then, again, he _moughtn’t_” said Jerry Price. “Ye hev jes’ got ter gin up yer hold on worldly things when ye air on a jury, like ye war dead.”