Explore "The Bellamy Trial" by Frances Noyes Hart on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
"Oh, I knew I would be -- I knew it! " moaned the redheaded girl crawling abjectly over three irritated and unhelpful members of the Fourth Estate, dropping her pencil, dropping her notebook, dropping a pair of gray gloves and a squirrel scarf, and lifting a stricken face to the menacing countenance of Ben Potts, king of court criers. "I've been late for every single thing that's happened since I got to this wretched town. It's like Alice in Wonderland -- you have to run like mad to keep in the same place. Who's talking? What's happened?"
"Well, you seem to be doing most of the talking," replied the real reporter unkindly. "And about all that's happened has been fifteen minutes of as hot legal brimstone and sulphur as you'd want to hear in a thousand years, emitted by the Mephistophelean Farr, who thinks it would be nice to have a jackknife in evidence, and the inflammable Lambert, who thinks it would be horrid. Mr. Lambert was mistaken, the knife is in, and they're just opening a few windows to clear the air. Outside of that, everything's lovely. Not a soul's confessed, the day is young, and Mr. Douglas Thorne is just taking the stand. Carry on!"