“Only the criminals who are caught redhanded confess that they are guilty. The guiltiest of them go on the stand, as we all know, proclaiming their innocence, and, not one, but all of the men who go to the chair after making such pleas maintain with their last breath that they are innocent. Gentlemen, this is the bitterest hour in all my life. I want to set this old man free, but I cannot conscientiously do so. I took my oath to render a fair and impartial verdict. You all know what a fair and impartial verdict must be in this case. I shall have to vote, as I have voted from the beginning, for conviction.” He sat down. No. 7, who was directly opposite him across the long table, leaned forward suddenly with an odd expression in his eyes. Then he blinked them. “Why, by jingo, he's--he's crying!” he exclaimed, something akin to awe in his voice. “You got tears in your eyes, darn me if you haven't.” There were tears in Sampson's eyes. He lowered his head. “Yes,” he said gruffly; “and I am not ashamed of them.” “Oh, come now, old feller,” said Mr. Hooper, uncomfortably; “don't make a scene. Pull yourself together. We're all friends here, and we're all good fellers. Don't--” “I'm all right,” said Sampson coldly. “You see I'm not as hard-hearted as you thought. Now, gentlemen, I shall not attempt to argue with you. I shall not attempt to persuade you to look at the case from my point of view. As a matter of fact, I am rather well pleased with the attitude you've taken. The trouble is that it isn't going to help the poor old man. All we can do is to disagree, and that means he will have to be tried all over again, perhaps after many months of confinement. I should like to ask you--all of you--a few rather pointed questions, and I'd like to have square and fair answers from you. What do you say to that?” “Fire away,” said the foreman. “It's one o'clock,” said No. 7. “Supposin' we wait till after breakfast.” “Gawd, I'm sleepy,” groaned No. 12. “No,” said the foreman firmly; “let's hear what Mr. Sampson has to say. He's got a lot of good common sense and he won't ask foolish questions. They'll be important, believe me.” They all settled hack in their chairs, wearily, drearily. “All right. Go ahead,” sighed the chubby bachelor. “I'll answer any question except 'what'll you have to drink,' and I'll answer that to-morrow.” Sampson hesitated. He was eyeing No. 7 in a retrospective sort of way. No. 7 shifted in his chair and succeeded in banishing the dreamy, faraway look in his eyes. “Assuming,” began the speaker, “that we were trying a low-browed, undershot ruffian instead of James W. Hildebrand, and the evidence against him was identical with that which we have been listening to, would you disregard it and accept his statement instead?” “The case ain't parallel,” said No. 8. “His face wouldn't be James W. Hildebrand's, and you can bank a lot on a feller's face, Mr. Sampson.” The others said, “That's so.”