This was refused, and the case went to the jury on
the seventh day—a surprisingly short trial,
considering the magnitude of the crimes.
The jury disagreed. But, while they wrangled,
McWhirter and I were already on the right track.
At the very hour that the jurymen were being discharged
and steps taken for a retrial, we had the murderer
locked in my room in a cheap lodging-house off Chestnut
Street.
FREE AGAIN
With the submission of the case to the jury, the witnesses
were given their freedom. McWhirter had taken
a room for me for a day or two to give me time to
look about; and, his own leave of absence from his
hospital being for ten days, we had some time together.
My situation was better than it had been in the summer.
I had my strength again, although the long confinement
had told on me. But my position was precarious
enough. I had my pay from the Ella, and nothing
else. And McWhirter, with a monthly stipend from
his hospital of twenty-five dollars, was not much
better off.
My first evening of freedom we spent at the theater.
We bought the best seats in the house, and we dressed
for the occasion—being in the position
of having nothing to wear between shabby everyday wear
and evening clothes.
“It is by way of celebration,” Mac said,
as he put a dab of shoe-blacking over a hole in his
sock; “you having been restored to life, liberty,
and the pursuit of happiness. That’s the
game, Leslie —the pursuit of happiness.”
I was busy with a dress tie that I had washed and
dried by pasting it on a mirror, an old trick of mine
when funds ran low. I was trying to enter into
Mac’s festive humor, but I had not reacted yet
from the horrors of the past few months.
“Happiness!” I said scornfully.
“Do you call this happiness?”
He put up the blacking, and, coming to me, stood eyeing
me in the mirror as I arranged my necktie.
“Don’t be bitter,” he said.
“Happiness was my word. The Good Man
was good to you when he made you. That ought
to be a source of satisfaction. And as for the
girl—”
“What girl?”
“If she could only see you now. Why in
thunder didn’t you take those clothes on board?
I wanted you to. Couldn’t a captain wear
a dress suit on special occasions?”
“Mac,” I said gravely, “if you will
think a moment, you will remember that the only special
occasions on the Ella, after I took charge, were funerals.
Have you sat through seven days of horrors without
realizing that?”
Mac had once gone to Europe on a liner, and, having
exhausted his funds, returned on a cattle-boat.
“All the captains I ever knew,” he said
largely, “were a fussy lot —dressed
to kill, and navigating the boat from the head of a
dinner-table. But I suppose you know. I
was only regretting that she hadn’t seen you
the way you’re looking now. That’s
all. I suppose I may regret, without hurting
your feelings!”
