side him sat Mrs. Appleboy, also pale but even more resolute. A jury
had been selected without much manifest attention by Tutt, who had
nevertheless managed to slip in an Abyssinian brother on the back row,
and an ex-dog fancier for Number Six. Also among those present were a
delicatessen man from East Houston Street, a dealer in rubber novelties,
a plumber and the editor of Baby's World. The foreman was almost as fat
as Mr. Appleboy, but Tutt regarded this as an even break on account of
the size of Tunnygate. As Tutt confidently whispered to Mrs. Appleboy,
it was as rotten a jury as he could get.

Mrs. Appleboy didn't understand why Tutt should want a rotten jury, but
she nevertheless imbibed some vicarious confidence from this statement
and squeezed Appleboy's hand encouragingly. For Appleboy, in spite of
his apparent calm, was a very much frightened man, and under the creases
of his floppy waistcoat his heart was beating like a tom-tom. The
penalty for assault in the second degree was ten years in state's
prison, and life with Bashemath, even in the vicinity of the Tunnygates,
seemed sweet. The thought of breaking stones under the summer sun--it
was a peculiarly hot summer--was awful. Ten years! He could never live
through it! And yet as his glance fell upon the Tunnygates, arrayed in
their best finery and sitting with an air of importance upon the front
bench of the court room, he told himself that he would do the whole
thing all over again--yes, he would! He had only stood up for his
rights, and Tunnygate's blood was upon his own head--or wherever it was.
So he squeezed Bashemath's hand tenderly in response.

Upon the bench Judge Witherspoon, assigned from somewhere upstate to
help keep down the ever-lengthening criminal calendar of the
Metropolitan District, finished the letter he was writing to his wife in
Genesee County, sealed it and settled back in his chair. An old war
horse of the country bar, he had in his time been mixed up in almost
every kind of litigation, but as he looked over the indictment he with
difficulty repressed a smile. Thirty years ago he'd had a dog case
himself; also of the form, style and breed known as bull.

"You may proceed, Mister District Attorney!" he announced, and little
Pepperill, the youngest of the D.A.'s staff, just out of the law school,
begoggled and with his hair plastered evenly down on either side of his
small round head, rose with serious mien, and with a high piping voi