the end of his nose. The boss said he were a nuisance."
"That will do, Mr. McCaffrey."
"Ospino?"
The Mexican stood up with a sickly smile.
"Your honor!" Bob turned to the judge. His honor had slipped into dreamland. He was not only asleep, but a low gurgle proclaimed a coming snore.
Fritz Poth stepped forward and looked into the pitcher. It was empty, but there was no mistaking the lingering odor.
"Who done this?" he demanded.
"Never mind him," urged the citizens of Hopedale, now aroused. "He don't cut any figger, anyhow. We want to know who's lying in this here case."
"It's a very easy matter to find out," Bob replied. "Mr. McCaffrey, if you will be good enough to go to the opposite side of the street and hold up some object we can very quickly test this witness's eyesight."
Spectators, jury, prisoner—all save the slumbering law—piled out unceremoniously to the sidewalk. Spiser among them, his face like a thundercloud. Mr. McCaffrey walked
