s a chance to burn up all the papers that's in
it."

"Constable, you will arrest Dr. Small, Peter Jones, and William Jones.
Send two deputies to bring Small's trunk into court," said Squire
Underwood.

The prosecuting attorney was silent.

Walter then told of the robbery at Schroeder's, told where he and Small
had whittled the fence while the Joneses entered the house, and
confirmed Ralph's story by telling how they had seen Ralph in a
fence-corner, and how they had met the basket-maker on the hill.

"_To_ be sure," said the old man, who had not ventured to hold up his
head, after he was arrested, until Walter began his testimony.

Walter felt inclined to stop, but he could not do it, for there stood
Mr. Soden, looking to him like a messenger from the skies, or the
bottomless pit, sent to extort the last word from his guilty soul He
felt that he was making a clean breast of it--at the risk of perdition,
with the penitentiary thrown in, if he faltered. And so he told the
whole thing as though it had been the day of doom, and by the time he
was through, Small's trunk was in court.

Here a new hubbub took place at the door. It was none other than the
crazy pauper, Tom Bifield, who personated General Andrew Jackson in the
poor-house. He had caught some inkling of the trial, and had escaped in
Bill Jones's absence. His red plume was flying, and in his tattered and
filthy garb he was indeed a picturesque figure.

"Squar," said he, elbowing his way through the crowd, "I kin tell you
sornethin'. I'm Gineral Andrew Jackson. Lost my head at Bueny Visty.
This head growed on. It a'n't good fer much. One side's tater. But
t'other's sound as a nut. Now, I kind give you information."

Bronson, with the quick perceptions of a politician, had begun to see
which way future winds would probably blow. "If the court please," he
said, "this man is not wholly sane, but we might get valuable
information out of him. I suggest that his testimony be taken for what
it is worth."

"No, you don't swar me," broke in the lunatic. "Not if I knows myself.
You see, when a feller's got one side of his head tater, he's mighty
onsartain like. You don't swar me, fer I can't tell what minute the
tater side'll begin to talk. I'm talkin' out of the lef' side now, and
I'm all right. But you don't swar me. But ef you'll send some of your
constables out to the barn at the pore-house and look under the hay-mow
in the north-east corner, you'll find some t