"

It was not much of a compliment to be retained on Rumpety's jury. As
often as, in his cursory examination, he came upon an ignorant or
brutish face, a complacent smile played about the thin lips, and he
said, "That man 'll do. He 'll do."

And now the trial began. People from the town of Wolverton testified
that the boy Victor--poor little defeated Victor!--had appeared in the
street fleeing from his home, four miles away, crying that his father
was going to kill him. The child's ear had been frightfully bruised and
swollen, and there were unmistakable marks of ill usage upon him. The
man Rumpety's barbarity was notorious on all the countryside, and this
was the third successive year he had been up before the court. It had
never been possible to secure a conviction, owing to the dogged
persistence of his victims in perjuring themselves in his favor.

As one after another of the trembling family shuffled up to the
witness-seat and swore, with hanging head and furtive eyes, that Dennis
Rumpety was a kind husband and father, who never punished them "more
than was just," this model parent sat with gleaming eyes and an evil
smirk, resting his case upon the "testimony of his fahmily." If,
occasionally, the witness hesitated, Rumpety would lift his eyebrows or
make a slight movement which sent the blood into the pale cheek of woman
or child and an added tremor into the faint voice. More than once the
district attorney sprang to his feet and cried, "Your honor, I object to
this man's intimidating the people's witnesses;" but the intimidation
was too subtle to seize hold upon.

Ed Rankin wondered what would happen if somebody should hit the wretch a
whack over the head every time he raised an eyebrow. Somehow it struck
him that the law was hardly equal to tackling "that kind."

The cross-examination brought out no new evidence.

The district attorney was especially persistent with the boy, the
immediate victim in this instance.

"Victor," he said, "state to the jury why you accused your father of
abusing you and wanting to kill you, if it wasn't true."

The boy hesitated.

"Don't be afraid to speak the truth. He sha' n't hurt you."

But the boy knew better.

"Sure I lied," he said.

"And what did you lie for?"

"Because I was mad."

"But what made you get mad with such a kind father?"

"Because he came into the cellar and found fault wid me about the
potatoes."

"Had he reason to find fault with you?"