Part 12 (2/2)
The cross-examination brought out no new evidence.
The district attorney was especially persistent with the boy, the immediate victim in this instance.
”Victor,” he said, ”state to the jury why you accused your father of abusing you and wanting to kill you, if it wasn't true.”
The boy hesitated.
”Don't be afraid to speak the truth. He sha' n't hurt you.”
But the boy knew better.
”Sure I lied,” he said.
”And what did you lie for?”
”Because I was mad.”
”But what made you get mad with such a kind father?”
”Because he came into the cellar and found fault wid me about the potatoes.”
”Had he reason to find fault with you?”
The boy looked at his father: one look was enough.
”Yes, sorr. I had an ugly fit on.”
Poor little shrinking s.h.i.+vering 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?”
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