He insisted on McNiven's
calling him to the stand, though McNiven begged him to let ill
enough alone.
He took the oath with a fierce enthusiasm that woke the jury a
little, and he answered his own lawyer's questions with a fervor
that stirred a hope in the jury's heart, a sorely wrung heart it
was, for its pity for Charity was at war with its pity for Kedzie,
and its admiration for Jim Dyckman, who was plainly a gentleman and
a good sport even if he had gone wrong, could only express itself
by punishing Kedzie, whose large eyes and sweet mouth the jury could
not ignore or resist.
When his own lawyer had elicited from Jim the story as he wanted
it told, which chanced to be the truth, McNiven abandoned him to
Beattie with the words:
"Your witness."
Beattie was in fine fettle. He had become a name talked about
transcontinentally, and now he was crossing swords with the famous
Dyckman. And Dyckman was at a hideous disadvantage. He could
only parry, he could not counter-thrust. There was hardly a trick
forbidden to the cross-examiner and hardly a defense permitted to
the witness.
And yet that very helplessness gave the witness a certain shadowy
aide at his side.
Jim's heart was beating high with his fervor to defend Charity, but
it stumbled when Beattie rose and faced him. And Beattie faced him
a long while before he spoke.
A slow smile crept over the lawyer's mien as he made an excuse for
silence out of the important task of scrubbing his eye-glasses.
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