The judge was frowning now--frowning at Donaldson. Back in the court-room a slight buzz of voices began. Two or three spectators left benches in the rear and, bent double, as if to hide their progress, darted to seats nearer the front. And when at last Donaldson spoke, it was as if to further the case of the State. “As a matter of fact, Mr. Kirby,” he asked, “did he not pay you, for rent, one or more carved Indians, which you sent to your grandchildren as Christmas presents?” “Yes,” said Kirby. “Silence in the court!” cried the sheriff. Burton Evans turned away, a triumphant smile on his face. Then he glanced at the jury. They were mostly men of family; and now he must have remembered suddenly that Donaldson, in choosing the jury, had thrown out unmarried men and men without children; and for the first time now he must have noticed that the jury was mostly old men, some of them plainly grandfathers. Anyway, Burton Evans’s smile suddenly vanished! “Jeff Potter,” said Donaldson, “will you take the stand?” * * * * * Old Jeff never knew how he got there. He only knew he was sitting in a chair on a platform, his tattered hat between his knees; that before him were thousands of faces; that thousands of eyes were turned upon him; that to the left the jury were leaning forward; and that to the right the judge’s swivel chair creaked as His Honor turned toward him. Then he saw that Colonel Donaldson was still standing very erect by his table. Colonel Donaldson was speaking. “We will not now go into the happenings of that night, Jeff Potter, the night on which it is alleged by the State that you burned the store of this man.” He stopped and looked hard at Blainey. “The State may question you on that if the State so wishes. But I want to get at another matter. Mr. Kelly--I believe that is the officer’s name--has stated that on the afternoon he came to arrest you, you tried to escape by running to the woods. Now, Jefferson Potter, tell the judge and jury why you went to the woods, sir. Talk loud, so they can hear.” “I went”--old Jeff hardly knew his own voice--“I went to git some pokeberry juice to color an Injun with.” “And this Indian--for whom were you carving it?” “Fer little Ella Kyarson.” “And why were you carving an Indian for little Ella Carson? Talk loud, so the jury there can hear you.” Jeff turned toward them. They were leaning forward still farther now, these old graybeards, their eyes on him, their faces suddenly all kindly. “I was carvin’ it fer her because she said she never believed I sot that sto’ on fire.” The prosecutor, face flushed, sprang to his feet. “I object to all this, Your Honor! I contend, sir, that this is a patent attempt--”