cavity. I found it lodged in such and such a place,” illustrating
with his hand the course of the bullet.
“Did you extract the bullet?” asked the defendant’s lawyer, in a
clear voice.
“Yes, and here it is,” producing it and passing, it over to the
lawyer, who, after some cross-examination, dismissed him.
“Mr. Harold C. Bates, witness for the defendant,” called the
district attorney. 4
Mr. Bates took the stand and was asked:
“What is your profession?”
“I am an expert on guns and ammunition, employed by the
U. S. at Springfield arsenal.”
“Mr. Bates, what is the calibre of this revolver?” handing him
the one on the table.
“Thirtyntwo,” was the prompt reply. • *
“Very well; can you tell the court what the calibre of this
bullet is ?” passing him the one which had been extracted.
Mr. Bates examined it, produced a small set of balances,
weighed it, and replied “Forty-four.”
“Now, Mr. Bates, would it be possible to shoot that bullet out
of this revolver?”
Without the least hesitation Mr. Bates said to an audience,
breathless with interest, “Impossible.”
There was no need of further argumentation. The one witness
of the prosecution had been crushed, and the court was com
pelled to dismiss the case on the strnegth of the other side.
Arm in arm the successful lawyer and his client walked out of
the court room, down the street, and into a restaurant. Once by
themselves the rogue whispered into the lawyer’s ear, “I shot
the man.”
“Of course you did, but how?”
“The night after his burial I quietly crept into the churchyard,
unearthed him, dug the thirty-two out of his head, and, placing a
piece of chamois skin over the wound to keep the powder from
burning, I fired in a forty-four bullet. Then carefully burying
The Free Lance.