THE THING THEY CALLED JUSTICE Jack stared meditatively across at the young fellow sitting hunched upon another of the boxes that were the seats in this tent-jail, which was also the courtroom of the Vigilance Committee, and mechanically counted the slow tears that trickled down between the third and fourth fingers of each hand.

A half-hour spent so would have rasped the nerves of the most phlegmatic man in the town, and Jack was not phlegmatic; fifteen minutes of watching that silent weeping sufficed to bring a muffled explosion.
"Ah, for God's sake, brace up!" he gritted.

"There's some hope for you--if you don't spoil what chance you have got, by crying around like a baby.

Brace up and be a man, anyway.

It won't hurt any worse if you grin about it." The young fellow felt gropingly for a red-figured bandanna, found it and wiped his face and his eyes dejectedly.