“You don’t seem very sure, sir,” remarked the judge; and he added, addressing the intruder, “Who are you, sir?”
The old man seemed in a nervous and broken-down condition; but he stammered out, “He’s my son, my son, my lord.”
“It’s a lie,” cried young Mr. Pippitt.
“Hold your tongue till you’re asked to speak,” said his lordship snappishly. “I want to hear what this man has to say.”
The old man had much to say: much of young Mr. Pippitt’s virtue, industry, and much of his own fortunes, misfortunes, and wrongs. He usurped the functions of both lawyer and witness, and all the court listened to him.
“I’m glad to be here, gentlemen,” he said—“glad to be here. I thought I was never going to get out of that cell they put me in, not for long years. But here I am, Joe, thank God!”
“Who put you in a cell?” asked the judge.
“I’m telling you as fast as I can,” answered the old man petulantly. “I’d just written to Joe to send him a bit of money and tell him to look out for me, when they brought a charge of fraud against me—against me, a respectable merchant. And I was tried: tried and found guilty—unjustly, my lord—and sentenced to five years. To think of it! They didn’t know me out in Louisiana; no east-coast jury would have convicted.”
“Why didn’t they know you?”