"And we had. "We reopened the fellow's case and give him a new trial, and acquitted him, but it was too late to do him any good. He was as dead as Davy Crockett. "It was Sandy McNeagh, one of the quietest, straightest, and best-respected men in the county, and what was worse, hadn't been married but about three months. "'Whatever are we to do?' says I, and it sure was a case to think about. "'We ought to be nigh Sandy's house now,' said one of the men, who was tryin' to peer around and kind of locate the scene of our brilliant coop detaw, as they say. "Just then we seen a light from a door that opened in the dark, and the house wasn't two hundred yards away, and we saw what we knew must be Sandy's wife in the door a-lookin' for him. "'Somebody's got to go and tell her,' said I. I was kind o' leadin' the boys. 'Who'll do it?' Nobody jumped at the proposition. "'Red Conlin' says I, 'you're the man to tell her, and the only man here what could open his mouth to the poor girl. Go, like a man, and may the Lord teach you what to say, for d---d if I can.' "That boy never hesitated. I saw him kind o' wet his hand, and smooth back his red curls in the dark, and I seen his teeth shinin' as he said: "'I'll go, boys; wait for me.' "He went and we saw the door open and let him in. "'May the Lord help that poor widder,' we all said, 'and d--n us for bunglin', murderin' butchers what ain't no right to call ourselves men.' "It was fifteen minutes, maybe, when Red came back. "'How is it'?' we whispered, almost afraid to hear him speak. "'It's fixed,' says Red, 'and the widdy and I asks ye to the weddin' nixt Chuesday night.' "That fellow Red Conlin could talk." Why He Hesitated A man with a worn, haggard countenance that showed traces of deep sorrow and suffering rushed excitedly up the stairs into the editorial rooms of the Post. The literary editor was alone in his corner and the man threw himself into a chair nearby and said: "Excuse me, sir, for inflicting my troubles upon you, but I must unbosom myself to someone. I am the unhappiest of men. Two months ago, in a quiet little town in Eastern Texas, there was a family dwelling in the midst of peace and contentment. Hezekiah Skinner was the head of that family, and he almost idolized his wife, who appeared to completely return his affection. Alas, sir, she was deceiving him. Her protestations of love were but honeyed lies, intended to beguile and blind him. She had become infatuated with William Wagstaff, a neighbor, who had insidiously planned to capture her affections. She listened to Wagstaff's pleadings and fled with him, leaving her husband with a wrecked home and a broken heart. Can you not feel for me, sir?" "I do, indeed," said the literary editor. "I can conceive the agony, the sorrow, the deep suffering that you must have felt." "For two months," continued the man, "the home of Hezekiah Skinner has been desolate, and this woman and Wagstaff have been flying from his wrath."