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Updated: May 26, 2025
Sharpman," responded the old man, "you may trust me. I shall get into the spirit of the scheme very nicely." "What kind of a boy is he, any way? Pretty clear-headed?" "Well, yes, middling; but as obstinate as a mule. When he gets his mind set on a thing, it's no use to try to budge him. I've whipped him till he was black and blue, and it didn't do a penny's worth of good."
One by one they answered to their names, and were scrutinized closely by the lawyers as they took their places. Then Sharpman examined, carefully, the list of jurors that was handed to him, and drew his pen through one of the names. It was that of a man who had once suffered by reason of the lawyer's shrewdness, and he thought it best to challenge him.
There was but one theory, however, on which he could hope to introduce evidence of all that had taken place there, and he feared that that was not a sound one. But he determined to put on a bold face and make the effort. "Ralph," he said, calmly, "you may go on now and give the entire conversation as you heard it last night between Mr. Sharpman and Rhyming Joe."
Her thought was interrupted by the voice of Sharpman, who had faced the crowded court-room and was calling the name of another witness: "Richard Lyon!" A young man in short jacket and plaid trousers took the witness-stand. "What is your occupation?" asked Sharpman, after the man had given his name and residence. "I'm a driver for Farnum an' Furkison." "Who are Farnum and Furkison?"
Burnham, kneeling on the other side, was dipping her handkerchief into a glass of water, and bathing the lad's face. Bachelor Billy turned on his knees and looked up angrily at Sharpman. "Mayhap an' ye've killet 'im," he said, "wi' your traish an' your lees!" Then he rose to his feet and continued: "Can ye no' tell when a lad speaks the truth? Mon! he's as honest as the day is lang!
The people back in the court-room had risen to their feet, to look down into the bar, and the constables were trying to restore order. It all took place in a minute. Then Ralph began to talk again: "Rhymin' Joe said so; he said I was Simon Craft's grandson; he told " Sharpman interrupted him. "Come with me, Ralph," he said, "I want to speak with you a minute."
He had come there with a carefully concocted lie on his tongue to swindle the sharpest lawyer in Scranton out of enough money to fill an empty purse. "Will you be seated, Mr. Cheekerton?" said the lawyer, looking up from the card. "Thank you, sir!" The young man drew the chair indicated by Sharpman closer to the table, and settled himself comfortably into it.
The train reached Wilkesbarre, and Ralph and the lawyer went directly from the station to the court-house. There were very few people in the court-room when they entered it, and there seemed to be no especial business before the court. Sharpman went down into the bar and shook hands with several of the attorneys there. The judge was writing busily at his desk.
He cared nothing now for the weakness of Sharpman, for the cunning of Craft, for the verdict of the jury, for the judgment of the court; he knew, at last, that he was Robert Burnham's son, and no power on earth could have shaken that belief by the breadth of a single hair. The scene on the descending carriage the day his father died came back into his mind.
Well, now I have the good-fortune to know all about that child, and if you are laboring under the impression that he is a son of Robert Burnham, you are very greatly mistaken. He is not a Burnham at all." Sharpman looked at the young man incredulously. "You do not expect me to believe that?" he said. "You certainly do not mean what you are saying?"
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