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 in its history, and that no common murder, but the killing of its duly elected sheriff in the prosecution of his duty. It gave the town a new standing, an eminence among its neighbors…. All day boys and men had been walking out to the scene of the killing, and returning, had passed the jail and stared at its barred windows in the vain hope of seeing the monster who had perpetrated the crime. There was no other topic of conversation; business was at a standstill, and, judging from the groups to be seen upon Main Street, it might have been mistaken for a holiday.

An early caller at the jail was Alvin Trueman, pastor of the Congregational church, a man well liked by congregation and by outsiders as well, a kindly, compassionate, deeply religious man, who regarded his office in the ancient patriarchal light, and who, withal, was a jovial, humor-loving man, a pleasant companion and a good neighbor…. He conceived it his duty to call and to minister to the boy upon whose brow was branded the mark of Cain.

Chief Deputy Pilkinton was dubious. “’Tain’t reg’lar,” he said. “I dunno if I kin let you see the pris’ner, Mr. Trueman. I’m bearin’ consid’able responsibility, d’ye see, and I got to do the right thing in the right place, havin’ due regard fer law and order and the statutes in sich case made and pervided.”