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Calico Cat, The

<h2>V</h2> The day of the assembling of the grand jury for the September term of the Adams County court finally dawned. How Mr. Peaslee had looked forward to that day! How often had he pictured the scene—the bustle about the court house; the agreeable crowd of black-coated lawyers, with their clever talk, their good stories; the grave judge, and the still graver side judges; the greetings and hand-shakings amid much joking and laughter; the county gossip among the grand jurors in the informal moments before they filed into the courtroom to be sworn and to receive the judge's charge; himself, finally, in his best black coat and cherished beaver hat, there in the midst of it—important, weighty, respected, a public man! He had cherished the vision of himself walking up the village street on that first morning, a dignitary returning the cordial and admiring salutes of his village friends. He had seen himself later in the jury-room, shrewdly "leading" the reluctant witness, delivering weighty opinions on the bearing of testimony, and making all respect him as a marvel of conservatism, dignity, and wisdom. This was to be one of the most important and pleasurable days of his life, the rung in a ladder of preferment which reached as high as the state-house dome! And when that day came, it rained; steadily, gloomily, fiercely rained. Solomon was not allowed to wear his best clothes. When, peering out of the window, he hopefully said he "guessed mebbe 't was goin' to clear," his wife invited him tartly to "wait till it did." She insisted that he put on his every-day clothes, and thus arrayed, and without meeting a single villager to realize the importance of his errand, he waded up to the court house, the pelting rain rattling on his old umbrella, the fierce wind almost wrenching it inside out. There was, of course, no parade on the courthouse steps for the benefit of a wondering village, as there would have been had the day been fine. Instead, the men, steaming with wet, stood about uncomfortably in the corridors, muddy with the mud from their feet, wet with the drip from their umbrellas. The air in the court house was close, and every one felt uncomfortable and depressed. Mr. Peaslee, having greeted three or four men whom he knew, found himself jammed into a corner behind four or five jurors who were strangers to him, but he was too disheartened to try to scrape acquaintance with them. He felt lonely and helpless. He looked enviously over to the other end of the corridor, where Fred Farnsworth, Eben Sampson, and Albion Small were standing together. In contrast with the others, these men were laughing. Albion was "consid'able of a joker," Mr. Peaslee reflected gloomily. Then old Abijah Keith stormed in, and in his high, shrill voice began immediately to utter his unfavorable opinion of everything and everybody. "Well, if he ain't here again!" exclaimed, in disgust, Hiram Hopkins, one of the men in front of Solomon. "Cantankerest old lummux in the whole state—just lots on upsetting things. Abijah!" he snorted. "Can't Abijah, I call him!" Mr. Peaslee shrank back into his corner nervously. He knew this old tyrant and dreaded him. Not much was done that first day. The clerk swore them; the judge charged them, and appointed the sensible, steady Sampson foreman. Then they retired to the jury-room—a big, desolate place, wherein was a long, ink-spattered table surrounded by wooden armchairs and spittoons. The grand jurors seated themselves, and were solemnly silent while John Paige, the state's attorney, began the dull task of presenting cases. Mr. Peaslee found that he had nothing brilliant to say. As a matter of fact, his own troubles were making him see everything yellow. The jurymen did not seem to him as agreeable a lot as he had expected, and as for Paige, he irritated Solomon beyond measure. Paige was an able young man and a good lawyer, and was entitled to the position which he had attained so young; but, the son of a man of rather exceptional means, he had been educated at a city college, and had a sophistication which Solomon viewed with deep suspicion. Moreover, he discarded the garb which Mr. Peaslee regarded as sacred. He was not in black. Instead, he wore a light gray business suit, his collar was very knowing in cut, and his cravat of dark blue was caught with a gold pin. "Citified smart Aleck," was Mr. Peaslee's characterization. To tell the truth, he mistrusted the man's ability, and was afraid of him. If that fellow knew, Mr. Peaslee felt that it would go hard with him. Generally, Paige was popular. Solomon had, of course, been painfully awake to every hint and intimation in regard to Jim's case. He had seen Jake Hibbard, that carrion crow of the law, loafing about the corridors, and the sight had made him shiver. He had next heard that Jim's case would be quickly called,—probably on the next day,—news producing a complex emotion, the elements of which he could not distinguish. Furthermore, a remark or so which he overheard indicated that the out-of-town men were inclined to take a harsh view of the matter. And reflecting on all these things, he paddled home through the depressing wet. And the next day it rained. More and more perturbed, as the climax approached, Mr. Peaslee took his place in the jury-room, and sat there with unhearing ears. He sat and thought and delivered battle with his conscience, which was growing painfully vigorous and aggressive. But, after all, perhaps they would not find a true bill, and then Jim would go free, and he could breathe again. Mr. Peaslee clung to the hope, and hugged it. It was the one thing which gave him courage. "Gentlemen of the grand jury," suddenly he heard Paige saying, "the next case for you to consider is that of James Edwards, aged fifteen, of Ellmington, charged with assault, with intent to kill, upon one Peter Lamoury, also of Ellmington." And he proceeded to read the complaint, which, in spite of the monotonous rapidity with which he rattled it off, scared Mr. Peaslee badly with its solemn-sounding legal phraseology. "Gentlemen," said Paige, laying down the paper, "there was no eyewitness to the actual assault; and only three people have any personal knowledge of the event—Mr. Edwards, the defendant's father, the accused himself, and the complainant. Mr. Lamoury, his counsel tells me, is in no condition to appear. But I have here," lifting a paper, "his affidavit, properly executed, giving his version of the matter. The boy's father, however, is at hand. Probably the jury would like to question him." "It seems to me," said Mr. Sampson, "that Mr. Edwards would be pretty apt to know the rights of it, if he's willing to talk. I guess we'd better hear him." The state's attorney stepped to the door. "This way, please!" he called, and Mr. Edwards entered the room. Farnsworth and Peaslee both studied the man's face closely, although for very different reasons, and both found it sternly uncompromising. "Please take a chair, Mr. Edwards," said Paige, and in a swift glance rapidly estimated the man. "Here's some one who won't lie," he thought, impressed. "Now," he resumed, "will you kindly tell the members of the grand jury what you know of the case?" Mr. Edwards cleared his throat painfully. Determined as he was to let his rebellious boy take whatever punishment his mistaken course might bring, he now began to wish that the punishment would be light. His confidence that Jim needed only to be pushed a little to confess was somewhat shaken, and the charge was really serious. He felt a desire to explain, to palliate, to minimize. "Gentlemen," he said, "my boy's always been a good boy. I can't believe that he meant to hurt Lamoury or any one else. It must have been some accident—" "Facts, please," said Paige, crisply. Mr. Peaslee caught his breath indignantly. He had been entirely in sympathy with Mr. Edwards's soft mode of approaching his story. Paige seemed to him unfeeling. "I will answer any questions," said Mr. Edwards, stiffening. "Did you hear any shot fired?" began Paige. "Yes." "Where were you?" "I was asleep in the room above Jim's." "Was Jim in his room?" "I suppose so." "You suppose so. Don't you know?" "No, I don't know." "But to the best of your knowledge and belief he was there?" "Yes." "And the shot waked you?" "Yes." "What did you do on hearing the shot?" "I jumped to the window." "Tell what you saw, please." "I saw a man fall in the orchard, and hurried out to see if he was hurt. But he was gone when I got there." "Then what?" "I went to speak to Jim." "He was in his room, then, immediately after the shot?" "Yes." "Ah! And when you spoke to him, did he admit firing the shot?" "No." "Did he deny it?" "Yes." "Where was his gun?" "In the rack over the mantel." "In the rack over the mantel," repeated Paige, slowly, glancing at the jurors. "Did you examine it?" "Yes." "What was its condition? Did it show that it had been fired?" "No; it was clean." "It was clean," repeated Paige. "I understand that it was a double-barreled, muzzle-loading shotgun. Were there any rags about?" "Yes." "Where were they?" "One was in the ashes of the fireplace." "Look as if some one had tried to hide it?" "Yes"—reluctantly. "If it was that sort of gun, there must have been a shot-pouch and powder-flask. Where were they?" "In the drawer where Jim keeps them." "Everything looked, then, as if no shot had been fired?" "Yes." "Was there any one besides yourself and your son in the house?" "No." "Your housekeeper?" "She had stepped out." "To the best of your knowledge, then, there was no one about to fire the shot except your son?" "No." "That will do," said Paige, with an accent of finality. "That is," he added, with the air of one who observes a courteous form, "unless some of the grand jurors wish to ask a question." There were various things which were new to Mr. Peaslee in this testimony. He had supposed that Jim had been picked as the guilty person by a process of mere exclusion; he had had no idea that the case against him was so strong. How had the boy got to the room so soon after he himself had left, and why had he gone there? And why, why had he cleaned the shotgun? The grand jury must believe in his guilt. And when the case came to trial, what could Jim say to clear himself? It was going hard, hard with the boy. Mr. Peaslee's mouth grew dry, his palms moist; he moved uneasily in his chair. Once or twice he felt sure that the next instant he would find himself on his feet, but the minutes passed and he still was seated. And Farnsworth, anxious, for the sake of his betrothed, Miss Ware, to help Jim, was nonplussed. There were two possible explanations of Jim's cleaning the gun, if he did clean it: the first, that Jim was protecting himself; the second, that he was shielding some one else. But the second theory seemed quite untenable. Farnsworth had made some cautious but well-directed inquiries about Mr. Edwards, and had satisfied himself that the rumors about his smuggling were nothing but malicious gossip. There was not a man of greater honesty in the state. The boy must have done the shooting. Miss Ware would have to give it up. Still, he would hazard a question. "Mr. Edwards," he said, "Lamoury worked for you once, didn't he?" "Yes." "You quarreled, didn't you?" "I discharged him for intemperance." "There was no bad blood?" "Lamoury was angry, I believe." Farnsworth stopped; there was nothing to be gained by this course of questioning in the way of clearing Jim. Of course later, the point that Lamoury had a grudge against the family might have importance, although he could not see just how. Some one else surely heard that gunshot. It was incredible that the neighborhood should be so deserted. If only there were another witness! The other jurors had no questions. They were, to tell the truth, a little impatient. It was near the dinner-hour, and they were hungry. The case seemed perfectly plain to them. It was not likely, they argued, that the boy's father could be mistaken. "You may go," said Paige to Mr. Edwards. "I don't see," he began, when the witness had left the room, "any need for our going further into this case. Whatever we may think of the animus of the complainant,—I take it that was what you wished to bring out, Mr. Farnsworth,—there seems to be no question but that the boy fired the shot. The presumption seems strong also that he intended to hit. Were there any accident or any good excuse, the boy could, of course, have no motive not to tell it. I suggest that a true bill be found at once, and that we proceed to more important matters. I want to remind you that we have a great deal of work before us." "Well, gentlemen," said Sampson, "I guess we're pretty much of a mind about this. If no one has any objections, I guess we'll call it a vote." He looked round. "As we're all agreed—" he began. "Just a moment, Sampson!" suddenly exclaimed Farnsworth. It had just then flashed over him that Mr. Peaslee, the kind Mr. Peaslee, who gave Jim knives and harmonicas, was next-door neighbor to the Edwardses. If he had been at home when the shot was fired, he must have heard it, and he might have seen some significant thing which questioning might bring out. Of course, if Peaslee had seen anything, he would have spoken, but he might have overlooked the importance of some fact or other. "Just a moment, Sampson!" he said, and put up his hand. Then he swung sharply in his chair and put the question:— "Peaslee, where were you when that shot was fired?" <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/chap_6.jpg" title="Cat standing alert facing forward." height-obs="205" width-obs="140" alt="Cat standing alert facing forward." /></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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