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Updated: June 6, 2025
The jurors, who had been inclined, up to this time, to accept the dream as evidence, without question, now decided that it was nonsense. Marcus Wilkeson sat and listened, as if the scene and all the actors in it, himself included, were only a dream too. The young girl's evidence, of which he had not an inkling before, would have astounded him, if anything could.
The low murmur of the talk outside, like the distant hum of a waterfall or a mill, was sedative. The act of listening to it as she did for a few moments with natural curiosity was provocative of sleep. The conversation suddenly grew louder. The hollow voice of the inventor, and the deep bass of Marcus Wilkeson, could be heard alternating quickly.
Persons who knew Marcus Wilkeson well were aware that he was a shy, self-distrustful fellow, amiable, generous, and that the only faults which could possibly be alleged against him were an excessive fondness for old books, old cigars, and profitless meditations, and a catlike affection for quiet corners.
Wilkeson, and that that gentleman was a constant visitor at her father's house I thought it proper, as a sincere and disinterested friend of the young lady, to make some inquiries into his character. Judging, from the result of these inquiries, that his designs were not honorable toward Miss Minford Mr.
Having heard, outside, of the arrest of Marcus Wilkeson, on an unknown charge, he had plucked up courage and friendship enough to reenter the hall, and tender his aid and consolation to that unhappy man. He came in just in time to hear his name called. "So that's the chap they called Chicory, or Checkerberry," whispered C. Skimmerhorn, Esq.
And, in order that I may not delay you a single moment, I will bid you 'good-night." Marcus rose, but he hoped that the inventor would ask him to stay. The inventor did so. "Pray don't hurry, Mr. Wilkeson; I would like to have a brief conversation with you. A few minutes only." He drew a chair to the side of Marcus, and seated himself. "Mr.
Overtop smiled upon his ignorant friends, and answered: "Because he wears a white cravat. The man isn't a clergyman, is he? Do clergymen smoke pipes? He isn't a Quaker, is he? Do Quakers, or those of them who indulge in white cravats, wear their coat collars turned down? I leave it to your candor." Wilkeson and Maltboy nodded their heads, as if stricken dumb with conviction.
He withdrew his hand, and said, in a deep whisper: "I did not think you would quarrel with me, when I called to congratulate you on your recovery." Mr. Van Quintem wavered a moment. Then, looking at the calm face of Marcus Wilkeson, as if to gather strength from it, he replied: "My son, such language is not respectful to your father.
Marcus Wilkeson was very pale, and, when he looked across the room, as he did upon his entrance, by a singular impulse, and saw the great blood mark and the club on the floor, he trembled with emotion. The keen eyes of the coroner caught these signs, and he immediately brought in a mental verdict of "guilty." Some of the jury observed the same signs, and thought them suspicious.
He had brought all his tonical properties with him. Good nature and cheerfulness effervesced from his face. Through the trial, and since the acquittal, Wesley Tiffles had stuck to Marcus. Twice, often three times a day, he called, and was always welcomed by Marcus, and not inhospitably received by Miss Philomela Wilkeson.
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