"No, which doesn't very often happen around here _if I can help it_. You're right. That's what I'm here for," the district attorney retorted with some irritation. "And now I'll tell you another thing. I had a second talk with Crouch only this afternoon after the verdict"--and he turned to me--"while the Judge was lunching with you, sir, and I begged him, now that it was all over, to send for his people, but he was stubborn as a mule, and swore he had no one who would want to see him. I don't suppose he had; he's been an outcast since he was born." "And that's why you worked so hard to hang him, was it?" The young man was thoroughly angry. I could see the color mount to his cheeks. I could see, too, that Crouch had no friends, except this young sprig of the law, who seemed as much chagrined over the loss of his case as anything else. And yet, I confess, I did not let my sympathies for the under dog get the better of me. I knew enough of the record of this new race not to recognize that there could be two sides to questions like this. The district attorney bit his lip at the young man's thrust. Then he answered him slowly, but without any show of anger:-- "You have one thing left, you know. You can ask for a new trial. What do you say, Judge?" The Judge made no answer. He evidently had lost all interest in the case, for during the discussion he had been engaged in twisting the end of the straw into the stem of the pipe and peering into the clogged bowl with one eye shut. "And if the Judge granted it, what good would it do?" burst out the young man as he rose to his feet. "If Sam Crouch had a soul as white as snow, it wouldn't help him with these juries around here as long as his skin is the color it is!" and he put on his hat and left the room. The Judge looked after him a moment and then said to me,-- "Our young men, sir, are impetuous and outspoken, but their hearts are all right. I haven't a doubt but that Crouch was guilty. He's probably been a vagrant all his life." III Some weeks after these occurrences I was on my way South, and again found myself within reach of the sleepy old park and the gruesome court-room. I was the only passenger in the Pullman. I had traveled all night in this royal fashion--a whole car to myself--with the porter, a quiet, attentive young colored man of perhaps thirty years of age, duly installed as First Gentleman of the Bedchamber, and I had settled myself for a morning of seclusion when my privacy was broken in upon at a way station by the entrance of a young man in a shooting jacket and cap, and high boots splashed with mud. He carried a folding gun in a leather case, an overcoat, and a game-bag, and was followed by two dogs. The porter relieved him of his belongings, stowed his gun in the rack, hung his overcoat on the hook, and distributed the rest of his equipment within reach of his hand. Then he led the dogs back to the baggage car.