quired his honor, taken aback. "This is no time to start anything," he admonished.
"Surely," Bob replied suavely, "it is not necessary to remind the court that in objecting to a juror who is not satisfactory we are only exercising our rights?"
The judge stiffened.
"That may be law in New York, but 't'aint here," replied his honor. "We make ourn to suit ourselves. Hathaway, slide along on that bench and make room for Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce!"
"He owes Spiser a five hundred-dollar poker debt," Ben whispered.
"Challenge!" Bob called sharply.
The gambler who bore a surprising resemblance to the Jack of Spades, hesitated.
"You hop into that seat," commanded the judge. "French Pete!"
"He's diggin' post-holes for Spiser," was the information Ben imparted.
"Challenge!"
"Look here!" the judge turned fiercely upon Bob—"you cut in again and I'll fine you for contempt of court."
Bob returned imperturbably: "I merely
