Poor little shrinking shivering wretch, with his cowed figure and trembling lips! It is safe to say that an "ugly fit" seized upon every person listening to that futile confession.
Ed Rankin felt the blood boil in his veins. He glanced at Myra Beckwith, sitting among the audience within the bar. She was leaning forward with her hands clasped tightly, watching the boy. There were tears in her eyes, and Rankin blessed her for them.
It was clear that the district attorney himself was a good deal wrought upon, for his manner grew quieter every minute. He sat with his head slightly forward, looking out from under his brows straight into the miserable little face before him. His questions came short and incisive.
"State to the jury again how you hurt your ear."
"Sure I fell off a horse."
"Hm! You fell off a horse and lit on your ear?"
"Yes, sorr."
"And this ingenious tumble took place before the racket in the cellar?"
"Yes, sorr."
"How long before?"
"I guess about a week."
