The Return of the Mucker | Page 3

Billy assured him
that he was on his way to the station at the very instant of arrest.
As the weeks dragged along, and Billy Byrne found no friendly interest
in himself or his desire to live on the square, and no belief in his
protestations that he had had naught to do with the killing of Schneider

he began to have his doubts as to the wisdom of his act.
He also commenced to entertain some of his former opinions of the
police, and of the law of which they are supposed to be the guardians.
A cell-mate told him that the papers had scored the department heavily
for their failure to apprehend the murderer of the inoffensive old
Schneider, and that public opinion had been so aroused that a general
police shakeup had followed.
The result was that the police were keen to fasten the guilt upon
someone--they did not care whom, so long as it was someone who was
in their custody.
"You may not o' done it," ventured the cell-mate; "but they'll send you
up for it, if they can't hang you. They're goin' to try to get the death
sentence. They hain't got no love for you, Byrne. You caused 'em a lot
o' throuble in your day an' they haven't forgot it. I'd hate to be in your
boots."
Billy Byrne shrugged. Where were his dreams of justice? They seemed
to have faded back into the old distrust and hatred. He shook himself
and conjured in his mind the vision of a beautiful girl who had believed
in him and trusted him-- who had inculcated within him a love for all
that was finest and best in true manhood, for the very things that he had
most hated all the years of his life before she had come into his
existence to alter it and him.
And then Billy would believe again--believe that in the end justice
would triumph and that it would all come out right, just the way he had
pictured it.
With the coming of the last day of the trial Billy found it more and
more difficult to adhere to his regard for law, order, and justice. The
prosecution had shown conclusively that Billy was a hard customer.
The police had brought witnesses who did not hesitate to perjure
themselves in their testimony-- testimony which it seemed to Billy the
densest of jurymen could plainly see had been framed up and learned
by rote until it was letter-perfect.

These witnesses could recall with startling accuracy every detail that
had occurred between seventeen minutes after eight and twenty-one
minutes past nine on the night of September 23 over a year before; but
where they had been and what they had done ten minutes earlier or ten
minutes later, or where they were at nine o'clock in the evening last
Friday they couldn't for the lives of them remember.
And Billy was practically without witnesses.
The result was a foregone conclusion. Even Billy had to admit it, and
when the prosecuting attorney demanded the death penalty the prisoner
had an uncanny sensation as of the tightening of a hempen rope about
his neck.
As he waited for the jury to return its verdict Billy sat in his cell trying
to read a newspaper which a kindly guard had given him. But his eyes
persisted in boring through the white paper and the black type to scenes
that were not in any paper. He saw a turbulent river tumbling through a
savage world, and in the swirl of the water lay a little island. And he
saw a man there upon the island, and a girl. The girl was teaching the
man to speak the language of the cultured, and to view life as people of
refinement view it.
She taught him what honor meant among her class, and that it was
better to lose any other possession rather than lose honor. Billy realized
that it had been these lessons that had spurred him on to the mad
scheme that was to end now with the verdict of "Guilty"--he had
wished to vindicate his honor. A hard laugh broke from his lips; but
instantly he sobered and his face softened.
It had been for her sake after all, and what mattered it if they did send
him to the gallows? He had not sacrificed his honor--he had done his
best to assert it. He was innocent. They could kill him but they couldn't
make him guilty. A thousand juries pronouncing him so could not make
it true that he had killed Schneider.
But it would be hard, after all his hopes, after all the plans he had made
to live square, to SHOW THEM. His eyes still boring through the paper

suddenly found themselves attracted by