Sinclair cleared his throat. "John Irving Gaspar, alias Jig, alias Cold
Feet, d'you know what we got agin' you? Know what you're charged with?"

"With--with an absurd thing, sir."

"Murder!" said Sinclair solemnly. "Murder, Jig! What d'you say, guilty
or not guilty! Most generally, you'd say not guilty."

"Not guilty--absolutely not guilty. As a matter of fact, Mr.
Sinclair--"

"Denver, shut him up and make him sit down."

One hard, brown hand was clapped over Jig's mouth. The other thrust him
back on the black rock.

"Gentlemen of the jury," said his honor, "you've heard the prisoner say
he didn't do it. Now we'll get down to the truth of it. What's the
witnesses for the prosecution got to say?"

There was a pause of consideration.

"Speak up pronto," said Sinclair. "Anybody know anything agin' the
prisoner?"

Larsen stepped forward. "Your honor, it's pretty generally known--"

"I don't give a doggone for what's generally known. What d'you know?"