earrings against the man's white quivering jowls was the worst, Charlie said.
Randolph thought old Charlie colored the thing if he was lying about it. If it was the truth the delusions of liquor would account for these overdrawn impressions. At any rate, the justice promptly spoke out what he thought.
"Charlie," he said, "you're trying to stage a sea yarn by the penny writers. It won't do!"
The man reflected, looking Randolph in the face.
"Why, yes," he said; "you're right—that's what it sounds like. But it isn't that. It's the truth." And he turned to my uncle. "You know it's the truth, Abner."
Randolph said that just here, at this point in the affair, all the established landmarks of common sense and sane credibility were suddenly jumbled up.
What my uncle answered was:
"I think it's all true."
Charlie took a big linen handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face. Then he said simply, quite simply, like a child:
"I'm afraid!"
One could doubt everything else, Randolph said; but not this. The man was in fear, beyond question.
"I've got it all figured out," Charlie continued. "They were after Dabney for something they thought he had in the chest. They offered to take a thousand dollars for their share and let him off. That's why he was so crazy to raise the money.
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