the fresh air--you look sick."

"My head does give me pain," Friedrich admitted.

"Your case can't possibly be called to-day, anyway. You'd better go off
until to-morrow."

"I thank you. I will when I have seen the honorable judge come in. It
is most new to me, these customs of yours."

"I reckon they must be," returned Weaver, with something like pity in
his upward glance at the drawn face above him. He scuttled off as a
voice cried,--

"The court! the court!"

The lawyers scampered to their places behind the bar, and stood to
acknowledge the entrance of the judge.

Beyond thinking him strangely unjudicial in appearance, Friedrich took
no interest in him, for he did not regard him as the arbiter of his
fate, since he had learned the customary sentence for cases like his,
which was pronounced with the regularity of machinery and knew no
variety.

He waited until another half-hour's observation had made clear to him
the method of drawing the jurors. He left this task still in process of
being fulfilled, and urged his way out of the press that held him fast.

The fresh, cool air was as wine to him, for wine invigorates the body
while it clouds the mind. His lungs greedily took in great draughts of
its light purity, and his blood raced so merrily that he grew confused.
Always the pain bit into his eyes, and through his half-closed lids he
saw but dimly the people around him and the pavement beneath his feet.

He went back to the little room that he had hired, and slept heavily
into the afternoon. When he went out to get his supper at a restaurant,
the gaunt figures of his fellow-criminals were at every step. They
gazed curiously into the lighted shop-windows; they talked in groups
that overflowed the curbstone into the gutter. In a vacant lot back of
the Methodist church the glare of a camp-fire showed the covered wagon
that was to give a night's shelter to the family whose shadows were
cast large against its canvas side.

As he passed each group of them the odor that he had breathed for an
hour in the morning assailed his nostrils and seemed to force itself
into his lungs. He could not eat his supper, and he spent a restless
night, filled with horrid dreams. Sydney was selling whisky to Mr.
Weaver. The Judge turned into Dr. Morgan, who grinned triumphantly at
his victim as he stood in the crowd behind the rail. He bent to kiss
the hand of Mrs. Carroll, and she held in it a shell filled with
bird-shot.

Alw