“I’m willing to agree to that if you are, Nat,” Austen answered.  He looked at the lawyer’s fleshy face, blue-black where it was shaven, and at Mr. Billings’ shifty eyes and mouth, which its muscles could not quite keep in place.  Mr. Billings also had nicked teeth.  But he did his best to hide these obvious disadvantages by a Falstaffian bonhomie,—­for Mr. Billings was growing stout.

“I tried it once or twice, my friend, when I was younger.  It’s noble, but it don’t pay,” said Mr. Billings, still confidential.  “Brush is sour—­look at him.  But I understand how you feel.  I’m the kind of feller that speaks out, and what I can’t understand is, why the old man let you get into it.”

“He knew you were going to be on the other side, Nat, and wanted to teach me a lesson.  I suppose it is folly to contest a case where the Railroad Commission has completely exonerated your client,” Austen added thoughtfully.

Mr. Billings’ answer was to wink, very slowly, with one eye; and shortly after these pleasantries were over, the case was called.  A fragrant wind blew in at the open windows, and Nature outside was beginning to array herself in myriad hues of green.  Austen studied the jury, and wondered how many points of his argument he could remember, but when he had got to his feet the words came to him.  If we should seek an emblem for King David’s smooth, round stone which he flung at Goliath, we should call it the truth—­for the truth never fails to reach the mark.  Austen’s opening was not long, his words simple and not dramatic, but he seemed to charge them with something of the same magnetic force that compelled people to read and believe “Uncle Ton’s Cabin” and the “Song of the Shirt.”  Spectators and jury listened intently.

Some twenty witnesses appeared for the plaintiff, all of whom declared that they had heard neither bell nor whistle.  Most of these witnesses had been in the grove, two or three in the train; two, residents of the vicinity, testified that they had complained to the Railroad Commission about that crossing, and had received evasive answers to the effect that it was the duty of citizens to look out for themselves.  On cross-examination they declared they had no objection to grade crossings which were properly safeguarded; this crossing was a death-trap.  (Stricken out.) Mr. Billings made the mistake of trying to prove that one of these farmers—­a clear-eyed, full-chested man with a deep voice—­had an animus against the railroad dating from a controversy concerning the shipping of milk.

“I have an animus, your Honour,” said the witness, quietly.  “When the railrud is represented by the kind of politicians we have in Putnam, it’s natural I should hain’t it?”

This answer, although stricken out, was gleefully received.