“Not so fast—not so fast, brother Williams,” put in Timms, who felt it was now his turn to say a word, and who was thumbing a small pocket-almanac very diligently the while. “This discussion, I understand the learned gentleman, took place in the juror’s store?” “It did, sir,” was the answer—“a place where such discussions are very apt to occur. Hook and White loaf half their time away in that store.” “All quite likely—very likely to happen—Mr. Hatfield, do you open your store on the Sabbath?” “Certainly not—I am very particular to do nothing of the sort.” “A church-member, I suppose, sir?” “An undeserving one, sir.” “Never, on any account, in the practice of opening your store of a Sabbath, I understand you to say?” “Never, except in cases of sickness. We must all respect the wants of the sick.” “Are Hook and White in the habit of loafing about on your premises of a Sunday?” “Never—I wouldn’t tolerate it. The store is a public place of a week-day, and they can come in if they please; but I wouldn’t tolerate such visits on the Sabbath.” “Yet, if the court please, the 26th of last May happened to fall on the Sabbath day! My brother Williams forgot to look into the almanac before he made up his brief.” Here Timms sat down, cocking his nose still higher, quite certain of having made a capital hit towards his views on the Senate, though he actually gained nothing for the cause. There was a general simper in the audience; and Williams felt that he had lost quite as much as his opponent had gained. “Well, gentlemen, time is precious—let us get on,” interposed the judge—“Is the juror to enter the box or not?” “I trust a trifling mistake as to the day of the month is not about to defeat the ends of justice,” answered Williams, raising himself higher on his stilts, as he found himself sinking lower in his facts. “I put it on the 26th by a miscalculation, I can now see. It was probably on the 25th—Saturday is the loafer’s holiday;—yes, it must have been on Saturday the 25th that the conversation took place.” “Do you remember this fact, juror?” “I remember, now so much has been said on the subject,” answered Hatfield, firmly, “that I was not at home at all between the 20th and the 27th of May last. I could have held no such conversation on the 25th or 26th of May; nor do I know that I think Mary Monson either innocent or guilty.” As all this was true, and was uttered with the confidence of truth, it made an impression on the audience. Williams doubted; for so fine was his skill in managing men, that he often succeeded in gaining jurors by letting them understand he suspected them of being prejudiced against his case. With the weak and vain, this mode of proceeding has frequently more success than a contrary course; the party suspected being doubly anxious to illustrate his impartiality in his verdict. This was what Williams, and indeed the bar, very generally calls “standing so erect as to lean backward.”