I knew then there was no more politics to practice--just law enough to be found to let the court stand firm when the time came. The next night it was in the judge's room. Half a dozen old followers of the circuit were there on the judge's tip. "You bring your whiskey," he said to me, privately, "or there'll be none." And I brought it. And between Burns and the bottle and the long low silences of good country-bred men listening back through the soft cadences of memory, the case was won that night. I think it was Jock's song that did it. You never hear it sung by concert singers; because it has no theatricalism in it. It's just the wailing of the faith of the country lass in her lover: 'When the shades of evenin' creep O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e Sound and safely may he sleep, Sweetly blithe his waukenin' be. He will think on her he loves, Fondly he'll repeat her name, For, where'er he distant roves, Jockey's heart is still at hame.' If you listen right close you'll hear the hiss of the kettle behind it, and you can see the glow of the firelight and smell the sap of green wood in the smoke. Well, there were continuances; of course. It is never constitutional to throw a case of politics out of court too soon. We made that four hundred-mile round trip four times and, every time, Burns sat at night where Blackstone ruled by day. Never one word of the case from judge to accused, just continuances. But on the last night--the case was to be pressed next day--the judge said to Allison at the door, as he went off to bed: "I think you will be before me in a case tomorrow. If the worst comes and you demand your right to address the jury, the court will sustain you. And I advise you give 'em 'Jockey's Ta'en the Parting Kiss'--_and no more_. I know the jury." But the case was dismissed; we were serenaded at the hotel and held a reception. Driving away in a buggy over the fourteen miles to the railway station, Allison said: "There never was a prettier summer-time jail anywhere in the world than this one. I've been down to see it. It has vines growing over the low, white-washed walls, there's apple trees in the yard and the jailer has a curly headed little girl of six who would bring 'em to you and could slip 'em through the barred window by standing on the split bottom chair where her father sleeps in the shade after dinner. It's a beautiful picture--but it hasn't got a single damned modern convenience for winter and a six months' term would have landed me there till January!"