Peace, who was dressed in a suit of black, with his silver spectacles on his nose, and looked a mild meek old gentleman of the Pickwickian order, again remonstrated in a soft gentle voice.
“What’s the matter?” inquired a stout-built good-natured looking man, as he elbowed his way through the throng.
“Old gentleman’s hardly pressed, and can scarcely breathe,” answered one of the persons in the rear, and who evidently commiserated our hero’s situation.
The stout person, who seemed to be dressed in a little brief authority, touched Peace on the shoulder, and said in a whisper—
“Follow me—this way.”
Peace, nothing loth, did as he was bid.
He was taken by his conductor from the body of the court and passed in to that portion of it where the lawyers, barristers, and other persons of a nondescript order thread their way. Here he was comparatively comfortable—that is, as comfortable as it is possible to be in this precious sample of a court of justice, which is, perhaps, not saying much.
His conductor stood by his side on the same platform.
“I don’t know how to thank you sufficiently for this act of kindness,” observed our hero.
“Don’t mention it, sir, I beg,” returned the gentleman, who, if the truth must be told, had mistaken Peace for another and more exalted person.