The hand of God

How it begins

It was very hot when the sheriff sucked meditatively at his pipe in the county jail and listened abstractedly to the buzzing of the mob outside. It was dark, of course. Mobs do not often form in daylight—not mobs who propose to lynch one not especially reputable citizen for the murder of another still less reputable one. The jail was dark and more than a little malodorous. A darky in one of the rear cells whimpered a little in entirely unreasoning terror. A moth blundered heavily about the yellow-flamed lamp. The only other sound was the sucking, bubbling sound of the sheriff’s pipe. He rapped it out and rammed out the stem with a broom straw. There was a knock on the thick outer door.