Saved expense."
"But we'll have to bury her, like as not," said Isaac Porter.
"Yes," said Anderson reflectively. "She'll have to be buried.
But--but--" and here his face lightened up in relief--"not fer a day er
two; so what's the use worryin'."
When the coroner arrived, soon after six o'clock, a jury was empanelled
and witnesses sworn. In ten minutes a verdict of suicide was returned
and the coroner was on his way back to Boggs City. He did not even know
that a hip had been dislocated. Anderson insisted upon a post-mortem
examination, but was laughed out of countenance by the officious M.D.
"I voted fer that fool last November," said Anderson wrathfully, as the
coroner drove off, "but you c'n kick the daylights out of me if I ever
do it ag'in. Look out there, Bud! What in thunder are you doin' with
them pistols? Doggone, ain't you got no sense? Pointin' 'em around that
way. Why, you're liable to shoot somebody--"
"Aw, them ain't pistols," scoffed Bud, his mouth full of something.
"They're bologny sausages. I ain't had nothin' to eat sence last night
and I'm hungry."
"Well, it's dark out here," explained Anderson, suddenly shuffling into
the jail. "I guess I'll put them fellers through the sweat box."
"The _what?_" demanded George Ray.
"The sweat-box--b-o-x, box. Cain't you hear?"
"I thought you used a cell.
Pages:
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202