"
The third day of that week--it was about the middle of the
afternoon--a score of men, gossiping in the lower hall of the court
building, were hushed suddenly. A young man came hurrying down the
back stairs with a look of excitement.
"What's up?" said one.
"Sidney Trove is indicted," was the answer of the young man.
He ran out of doors and down the street. People began crowding out
of the court room. Information, surprise, and conjecture--a kind
of flood pouring out of a broken dam--rushed up and down the forty
streets of the village. Soon, as of old, many were afloat and some
few were drowning in it. For a little, busy hands fell limp and
feet grew slow and tongues halted. A group of school-girls on
their way home were suddenly overtaken by the onrushing tide. They
came close together and whispered. Then a little cry of despair,
and one of them fell and was borne into a near house. A young man
ran up the stairway at the Sign of the Dial and rapped loudly at
Darrel's door, Trove and the tinker were inside.
"Old fellow," said the newcomer, his hand upon Trove's arm,
"they've voted to indict you, and I've seen all the witnesses."
Trove had a book in his hand.
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