The foreman answered:
“TO THE MINUTEST DETAIL!”
Wilson said, solemnly:
“The murderer of your friend and mine—York
Driscoll of the generous hand and the kindly spirit—sits
in among you. Valet de Chambre, Negro and slave—falsely
called Thomas a Becket Driscoll—make upon
the window the fingerprints that will hang you!”
Tom turned his ashen face imploring toward the speaker,
made some impotent movements with his white lips,
then slid limp and lifeless to the floor.
Wilson broke the awed silence with the words:
“There is no need. He has confessed.”
Roxy flung herself upon her knees, covered her face
with her hands, and out through her sobs the words
struggled:
“De Lord have mercy on me, po’ misasble
sinner dat I is!”
The clock struck twelve.
The court rose; the new prisoner, handcuffed, was
removed.
It is often the case
that the man who can’t tell a lie
thinks he is the best
judge of one. —Pudd’nhead Wilson’s
Calendar
OCTOBER 12, THE DISCOVERY.
It was wonderful to find
America, but it would
have been more wonderful to miss it.
—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s Calendar
The town sat up all night to discuss the amazing events
of the day and swap guesses as to when Tom’s
trial would begin. Troop after troop of citizens
came to serenade Wilson, and require a speech, and
shout themselves hoarse over every sentence that fell
from his lips—for all his sentences were
golden, now, all were marvelous. His long fight
against hard luck and prejudice was ended; he was a
made man for good. And as each of these roaring
gangs of enthusiasts marched away, some remorseful
member of it was quite sure to raise his voice and
say:
“And this is the man the likes of us have called
a pudd’nhead for more than twenty years.
He has resigned from that position, friends.”
“Yes, but it isn’t vacant—we’re
elected.”
The twins were heroes of romance, now, and with rehabilitated
reputations. But they were weary of Western adventure,
and straightway retired to Europe.
Roxy’s heart was broken. The young fellow
upon whom she had inflicted twenty-three years of
slavery continued the false heir’s pension of
thirty-five dollars a month to her, but her hurts were
too deep for money to heal; the spirit in her eye
was quenched, her martial bearing departed with it,
and the voice of her laughter ceased in the land.
In her church and its affairs she found her only solace.
