on
account of the "critters" at home which needed her daily care, and the
eggs which had to be gathered and saved and sold, all against the happy
day when her boy Joe would walk out free and clear from the door of the
county jail.

CHAPTER XII

THE SUNBEAM ON THE WALL

The sheriff was a mild-mannered man, whose head was shaped like the end
of a watermelon. His hair was close-cut and very thin at the top, due to
the fact that all the nourishing substances both inside and outside his
head, or any way appertaining thereto, went into the maintenance of the
sheriff's mustache, which was at least twice as large as Bill Frost's.

This, of course, was as it should have been, for even the poorest kind
of a sheriff is more than twice as important as the very best sort of
constable. In those days it was the custom for sheriffs in that part of
the country to train up these prodigious mustaches, perhaps in the
belief that such adornments lent them the appearance of competence and
valor, of which endowments nature had given them no other testimonial.
In any event it is known that many a two-inch sheriff took his stand
behind an eight-inch mustache, and walked boldly in the honor of his
constituents.

The sheriff of Shelbyville was a type of this class, both in mental
depth and facial adornment. He was exceedingly jealous of his power, and
it was his belief that too many liberties permitted a prisoner, and too
many favors shown, acted in contravention of the law's intent as
interpreted by the prosecuting attorney; namely, that a person under the
cloud of accusation should be treated as guilty until able to prove
himself innocent. Therefore the sheriff would not allow Joe Newbolt to
leave his cell to meet visitors after his arraignment.

The meeting between the prisoner and his mother in the office of the
jail was to be the last of that sort; all who came in future must see
him at the door of his cell. That was the rule laid down to Joe when he
parted from his mother and Colonel Price that day.

As a cell in a prison-house, perhaps Joe's place of confinement was
fairly comfortable. It was situated in the basement of the old
court-house, where there was at least light enough to contemplate one's
misery by, and sufficient air to set one longing for the fields. There
was but one other prisoner, a horse-thief, waiting for trial.

This loquacious fellow, who was lodged directly across the corridor,
took great pains to let