"I don't think you have any reason to be proud of it," Edgar broke in.
Flett spread out his hands in expostulation.
"It's not our fault. I could put my hands on half a dozen men who're at the bottom of the trouble; but what would be the use of that, when the blamed jury would certainly let them off? In a case of this kind, our system of justice is mighty apt to break down. It's a pet idea of mine."
"How would you propose to alter it?" Edgar asked, to lead him on.
"If we must have a jury, I'd like to pick them, and they'd be men who'd lost some stock. You could depend on them."
"There's something to be said for that," Grant admitted with a dry smile.
"This is how we're fixed," Flett went on. "We're up against a small, but mighty smart, hard crowd; we know them all right, but we can't get after them. You must make good all you say in court, and we can't get folks to help us. They'd rather mind the store, have a game of pool, or chop their cordwood."
"I can think of a few exceptions," Edgar said. "Mrs. Nelson, for example. One could hardly consider her apathetic."
"That woman's dangerous! When we were working up things against Beamish, she must make him look like a persecuted victim. She goes too far; the others won't go far enough. Guess they're afraid of getting hurt."
"You couldn't say that of Mr. Hardie," Flora objected.