"Well, I don't know," observed a neighbor. "The match-box looks bad; but I guess if I'd been burning a place up I shouldn't have forgotten it. Still, it might be fatal unless he could disown it. As to the other thing, I don't count much on what he said. A real fire-bug would have kept his mouth shut and helped all he was worth instead of saying anything."
"I'm offering five to one he goes up. Any takers?" said the first speaker; and it was significant that, although most Westerners are keen at a bet, nobody offered.
"I'd do it for less, 'cept for the match-box," said one.
I managed to finish my breakfast, feeling thankful that--because (so their appearance suggested) those who sat at meat had driven in from the prairie to enjoy the spectacle--none of them recognized me. The odds, in their opinion, were more than five to one against me, and I agreed with them. Slipping out I found Dixon, and reported my presence to the police; and, after what seemed an endless waiting at the court, it was early afternoon when Dixon said to me: "They'll be ready in five minutes, and I want you to keep a tight rein on your temper, Ormesby. I can do all the fancy talking that is necessary. You can keep your heart up, too. There are going to be surprises for everyone to-day."
I was called in a few minutes, and if the court had been thronged on previous occasions, it was packed to suffocation now. It was a bare, ugly, wood-built room, even dirtier than it was dingy. Neither is there anything impressive, save, perhaps, to the culprit, about the administration of Western justice, and I was thankful for a lethargy which helped me to bear the suspense with outward indifference. Nothing striking marked the first part of the proceedings, and I sat listening to the drawl of voices like one in a dream. Some of the spectators yawned, and some fidgeted, until there was a sudden stir of interest as the name "Thomas Wilkins" rang through the court.
"I guess that's the prosecution's trump ace," said a man beneath me.
I became suddenly intent as this witness took his stand. He was of the usual type of Canadian-born farm hand, bronzed and wiry, but not heavily built, and hazarded what I fancied was a meaning glance at me. I could not understand it, for he seemed at once ashamed and exultant.