"Ah've done nothin'!" the darky declared. The sheriff kicked the darky's tattered boots across the floor, not unkindly. "Hyar," he said, "put yo' shoes on. Carl ain't goin' to die, and the jedge won't do much to yo'." "Ah never done nothin'," the negro protested, but he leant down as he was told, and started to put on his shoes. One of the shoes had slid close to Anton's feet, almost knocking the crutch out of his hand, and the lad's glance fell on it. He started. "What time did you say the shooting was done, Mr. Abner?" he asked. "Between a quarter and a half after eight," the sheriff replied. With a sudden excitement in his voice, Anton turned to the negro. "How many pairs of shoes have you got?" he asked. Dan'l caught the tension in his voice. "Two pair, Mistah Anton," he said. "Which did you wear this afternoon?" "These hyar." "And where are the others?" "In yonder corner." Anton limped across the room and brought out the second pair of shoes. The leather was all dry and wrinkled. They had evidently not been used for a long time. "He's right, Mr. Abner," he said, "he wore those shoes." The sheriff, divining by the excitement in the boy's voice that there was a hidden purpose in these remarks, took up the second pair of shoes and looked at them. "Yes, that's sho'," he answered, "he didn't wear these hyar!" "Then he wore those," said Anton. "Well, what if he did?" "Look at your shoes," said the boy. "Well?" queried the sheriff, looking down at his boots. "They're muddy, aren't they?" persisted the boy. "Right muddy," the sheriff agreed. "And Bill's shoes are muddy, too." There was no doubt of that, either. "Well?" said the sheriff, questioningly. For answer Anton held out Dan'l's other shoe, the one he had been holding in his hand. "This isn't muddy," he said. "What's more, it's got dust on it, dust in all the cracks. You can see it hasn't been cleaned for a long time, probably never since it was given him." "Well?" repeated the sheriff, still uncomprehending. "Lindstrom's place is more'n a mile from here," declared Anton, his heart beating hard. "Jest a mile," said Ole Lindstrom. "And you say the shooting was before half-past eight?" "It sho' was," the sheriff answered, "it was jest a little after half-past eight that Carl was carried home." "Then," declared Anton, in a quiet way that carried conviction, "Dan'l didn't do it, and I can prove it." "Mistah Anton! Mistah Anton!" the darky cried. "Quiet! You!" said the man who was holding the prisoner. "What do you mean, Anton?" the boy's father asked him.