The men removed their hats.  The witness was sworn.

“What is your name?” the coroner asked.

“William Harker.”

“Age?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“You knew the deceased, Hugh Morgan?”

“Yes.”

“You were with him when he died?”

“Near him.”

“How did that happen—­your presence, I mean?”

“I was visiting him at this place to shoot and fish.  A part of my purpose, however, was to study him and his odd, solitary way of life.  He seemed a good model for a character in fiction.  I sometimes write stories.”

“I sometimes read them.”

“Thank you.”

“Stories in general—­not yours.”

Some of the jurors laughed.  Against a somber background humor shows high lights.  Soldiers in the intervals of battle laugh easily, and a jest in the death chamber conquers by surprise.

“Relate the circumstances of this man’s death,” said the coroner.  “You may use any notes or memoranda that you please.”

The witness understood.  Pulling a manuscript from his breast pocket he held it near the candle and turning the leaves until he found the passage that he wanted began to read.

II

WHAT MAY HAPPEN IN A FIELD OF WILD OATS

“. . .  The sun had hardly risen when we left the house.  We were looking for quail, each with a shotgun, but we had only one dog.  Morgan said that our best ground was beyond a certain ridge that he pointed out, and we crossed it by a trail through the chaparral.  On the other side was comparatively level ground, thickly covered with wild oats.  As we emerged from the chaparral Morgan was but a few yards in advance.  Suddenly we heard, at a little distance to our right and partly in front, a noise as of some animal thrashing about in the bushes, which we could see were violently agitated.

“‘We’ve started a deer,’ I said.  ‘I wish we had brought a rifle.’

“Morgan, who had stopped and was intently watching the agitated chaparral, said nothing, but had cocked both barrels of his gun and was holding it in readiness to aim.  I thought him a trifle excited, which surprised me, for he had a reputation for exceptional coolness, even in moments of sudden and imminent peril.

“‘O, come,’ I said.  ’You are not going to fill up a deer with quail-shot, are you?’

“Still he did not reply; but catching a sight of his face as he turned it slightly toward me I was struck by the intensity of his look.  Then I understood that we had serious business in hand and my first conjecture was that we had ‘jumped’ a grizzly.  I advanced to Morgan’s side, cocking my piece as I moved.

“The bushes were now quiet and the sounds had ceased, but Morgan was as attentive to the place as before.

“‘What is it?  What the devil is it?’ I asked.