“I should think so,” said some of the by-standers.  “If it don’t hang him, there’s a loud call for Judge Lynch.”

“Silence!” said the justice.  “The prisoner will be taken for the present to the city jail.”

Sam was led out, and Offitt accompanied the chief of police back to the room he had just quitted.  He remained there several hours which seemed to him interminable.  At last, however, the detective who had been sent to inquire as to the truth of the account he had given of himself, returned with a full confirmation of it, and Offitt was suffered to go, on his own engagement to give further evidence when called upon.

He left the City Hall with a great load off his mind.  It was not without an effort that he had sworn away the character, the freedom, and perhaps the life of his comrade.  If he could have accomplished his purpose without crushing Sleeny he would have preferred it.  But the attack which his goaded victim had made upon him in the court-room was now a source of lively satisfaction to him.  It created a strong prejudice against the prisoner; it caused the justice at once to believe him guilty, and gave Offitt himself an injured feeling that was extremely comforting in view of what was to happen to Sleeny.

He went along the street tapping his various pockets furtively as he walked.  He was hungry.  His diverse emotions had given him an appetite.  He went into an eating-house and commanded a liberal supper.  He had an odd fancy as he gave his order.  “That’s the sort of supper I would have, if it was my last—­if I was to be hanged tomorrow.”  He thought of Sleeny and hoped they would treat him well in jail.  He felt magnanimously toward him.  “Who would have thought,” he mused, “that Sam had such a devil of a temper?  I most hope that Farnham won’t die—­it would be rough on Sam.  Though perhaps that would be best all round,” he added, thinking of Sam’s purple face in the court-room and the eager grip of his fingers.

He came out of the eating-house into the gathering twilight.  The lamps were springing into light in long straight lines down the dusky streets.  The evening breeze blew in from the great lake tempering the stale heat of the day.  Boys were crying the late editions of the newspapers with “Full account arrest o’ the Farnham burglar!” He bought one, but did not stop to open it.  He folded it into the smallest possible compass, and stuffed it into his pocket, “along with the other documents in the case,” as he chuckled to himself; “I’ll read all about it in the train to-morrow—­business before pleasure,” he continued, pleased with his wit.

Every moment he would put his hand into his side pocket and feel the package containing the largest bills.  He knew it was imprudent—­that it might attract the attention of thieves or detectives; but to save his life he could not have kept from doing it.  At last he scratched his hand on the pin which was doing duty for the button he had lost in his scuffle with Sleeny.  “Ah!” he said to himself, with humorous banter, “it won’t do to be married in a coat with the buttons off.”