To the right stood the sheriff with his rifle, and on the outskirts hung the school-master.  Quickly the old Squire chose a jury—­giving old Joel the opportunity to object as he called each man’s name.  Old Joel objected to none, for every man called, he knew, was more friendly to him than to the Dillons:  and old Tad Dillon raised no word of protest, for he knew his case was clear.  Then began the trial, and any soul that was there would have shuddered could he have known how that trial was to divide neighbor against neighbor, and mean death and bloodshed for half a century after the trial itself was long forgotten.

The first witness, old Tad—­long, lean, stooping, crafty—­had seen the sheep rushing wildly up the hill-side “‘bout crack o’ day,” he said, and had sent Daws up to see what the matter was.  Daws had shouted back: 

“That damned Turner dog has killed one o’ our sheep.  Thar he comes now.  Kill him!” And old Tad had rushed in-doors for his rifle and had taken a shot at Jack as he leaped into the road and loped for home.  Just then a stern, thick little voice rose from behind Jack: 

“Hit was a God’s blessin’ fer you that you didn’t hit him.”

The Squire glared down at the boy and old Joel said, kindly: 

“Hush, Chad.”

Old Dillon had then gone down to the Turners and asked them to kill the dog, but old Joel had refused.

“Whar was Whizzer?” Chad asked, sharply.

“You can’t axe that question,” said the Squire.  “Hit’s er-er-irrelevant.”

Daws came next.  When he reached the fence upon the hill-side he could see the sheep lying still on the ground.  As he was climbing over, the Turner dog jumped the fence and Daws saw blood on his muzzle.

“How close was you to him?” asked the Squire.

“’Bout twenty feet,” said Daws.

“Humph!” said old Joel.

“Whar was Whizzer?” Again the old Squire glared down at Chad.

“Don’t you axe that question again, boy.  Didn’t I tell you hit was irrelevant?”

“What’s irrelevant?” the boy asked, bluntly.

The Squire hesitated.  “Why—­why, hit ain’t got nothin’ to do with the case.”

“Hit ain’t?” shouted Chad.

“Joel,” said the Squire, testily, “ef you don’t keep that boy still, I’ll fine him fer contempt o’ court.”

Joel laughed, but he put his heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder.  Little Tad Dillon and Nance and the Dillon mother had all seen Jack running down the road.  There was no doubt but that it was the Turner dog.  And with this clear case against poor Jack, the Dillons rested.  And what else could the Turners do but establish Jack’s character and put in a plea of mercy—­a useless plea, old Joel knew —­for a first offence?  Jack was the best dog old Joel had ever known, and the old man told wonderful tales of the dog’s intelligence and kindness and how one night Jack had guarded a stray lamb that had broken its leg—­until daybreak—­and he had been led to the dog and the sheep by Jack’s barking for help.  The Turner boys confirmed this story, though it was received with incredulity.