And now let us return to the trial, where Ralph sits waiting the testimony of Walter Johnson, which is to prove his statement false.
XXXI
The Trial Concluded
I do not know how much interest the “gentle reader” may feel in Bud. But I venture to hope that there are some Buddhists among my readers who will wish the contradictoriness of his actions explained. The first dash of disappointment had well-nigh upset him. And when a man concludes to throw overboard his good resolutions, he always seeks to avoid the witness of those resolutions. Hence Bud, after that distressful Tuesday evening on which Miss Martha had given him “the sack,” wished to see Ralph less than anyone else. And yet when he came to suspect Small’s villainy, his whole nature revolted at it. But having broken with Ralph, he thought it best to maintain an attitude of apparent hostility, that he might act as a detective, and, perhaps, save his friend from the mischief that threatened him. As soon as he heard of Ralph’s arrest he determined to make Walter Johnson tell his own secret in court, because he knew that it would be best for Ralph that Walter should tell it. Bud’s telling at second hand would not be conclusive. And he sincerely desired to save Walter from prison. For Walter Johnson was the victim of Dr. Small, or of Dr. Small and such novels as The Pirate’s Bride, Claude Duval, The Wild Rover of the West Indies, and the cheap biographies of such men as Murrell. Small found him with his imagination inflamed by the history of such heroes, and opened to him the path to glory for which he longed.
The whole morning after Ralph’s arrest Bud was working on Walter’s conscience and his fears. The poor fellow, unable to act for himself, was torn asunder between the old ascendency of Small and the new ascendency of Bud Means. Bud finally frightened him, by the fear of the penitentiary, into going to the place of trial. But once inside the door, and once in sight of Small, who was more to him than God, or, rather, more to him than the devil—for the devil was Walter’s God, or, perhaps, I should say, Walter’s God was a devil—once in sight of Small, he refused to move an inch farther. And Bud, after all his perseverance, was about to give up in sheer despair.
Fortunately, just at that moment Small’s desire to relieve himself from the taint of suspicion and to crush Ralph as completely as possible, made him overshoot the mark by asking that Walter be called to the stand, as we have before recounted. He knew that he had no tool so supple as the cowardly Walter. In the very language of the request, he had given Walter an intimation of what he wanted him to swear to. Walter listened to Small’s words as to his doom. He felt that he should die of indecision. The perdition of a man of his stamp is to have to make up his mind. Such men generally fall back on someone more positive, and take all their resolutions ready-made. But here Walter must decide for himself. For the constable was already calling his name; the court, the spectators, and, most of all, Dr. Small, were waiting for him. He moved forward mechanically through the dense crowd, Bud following part of the way to whisper, “Tell the truth or go to penitentiary.” Walter shook and shivered at this. The witness with difficulty held up his hand long enough to be sworn.
“Please tell the court,” said Bronson, “whether you know anything of the whereabouts of Dr. Small on the night of the robbery at Peter Schroeder’s.”
Small had detected Walter’s agitation, and, taking alarm, had edged his way around so as to stand full in Walter’s sight, and there, with keen, magnetic eye on the weak orbs of the young man, he was able to assume his old position, and sway the fellow absolutely.
“On the night of the robbery”—Walter’s voice was weak, but he seemed to be reading his answer out of Small’s eyes—“on the night of the robbery Dr. Small came home before—” here the witness stopped and shook and shivered again. For Bud, detecting the effect of Small’s gaze, had pushed his great hulk in front of Small, and had fastened his eyes on Walter with a look that said, “Tell the truth or go to penitentiary.”
“I can’t, I can’t. O God! What shall I do?” the witness exclaimed, answering the look of Bud. For it seemed to him that Bud had spoken. To the people and the court this agitation was inexplicable. Squire Hawkins’ wig got awry, his glass eye turned in toward his nose, and he had great difficulty in keeping his teeth from falling out. The excitement became painfully intense. Ralph was on his feet, looking at the witness, and feeling that somehow Bud and Dr. Small—his good angel and his demon—were playing an awful game, of which he was the stake. The crowd swayed to and fro, but remained utterly silent, waiting to hear the least whisper from the witness, who stood trembling a moment with his hands over his face, and then fainted.
The fainting of a person in a crowd is a signal for everybody else to make fools of themselves. There was a rush toward the fainting man, there was a cry for water. Everybody asked everybody else to open the window, and everybody wished everybody else to stand back and give him air. But nobody opened the window, and nobody stood back. The only perfectly cool man in the room was Small. With a quiet air of professional authority he pushed forward and felt the patient’s pulse, remarking to the court that he thought it was a sudden
