"I don't keer whar it comes from," said Joel, grimly--"but I'm a-goin' to
HAVE it."

It was plain that the old man not only was making no plea for sympathy, but
was alienating the little he had: and what he had was very little, for who but
a lover of dogs can give full sympathy to his kind? And, then, Jack was
believed to be guilty. It was curious to see how each Dillon shrank
unconsciously as the Turners gathered--all but Jerry, one of the giant twins.
He always stood his ground--fearing nor man, nor dog--nor devil.

Ten minutes later, the Squire took his seat on the platform, while the
circuit-rider squatted down beside him. The crowd, men and women and
children, took the rough benches. To one side sat and stood the Dillons, old
Tad and little Tad, Daws, Nance, and others of the tribe. Straight in front
of the Squire gathered the Turners about Melissa and Chad--and Jack as a
centre--with Jack squatted on his hanches foremost of all, facing the Squire
with grave dignity and looking at none else save, occasionally, the old
hunter or his little master.

To the right stood the sheriff with his rifle, and on the outskirts hung the
school-master. Quickly the old Squire chose a jury--giving old Joel the
opportunity to object as he called each man's name. Old Joel objected to
none, for every man called, he knew, was more friendly to him than to the
Dillons: and old Tad Dillon raised no word of protest, for he knew his case
was clear. Then began the trial, and any soul that was there would have
shuddered could he have known how that trial was to divide neighbor against
neighbor, and mean death and bloodshed for half a century after the trial
itself was long forgotten.

The first witness, old Tad--long, lean, stooping, crafty--had seen the sheep