“He wore breeches, anyhow.”
“Prisoner, I must caution you against this unseeming levity. Sergeant, make another note. We have established the fact of his birth. He had the customary pair of parents, and he admits his name is Connell. The case is proved already. But we have further and overpowering testimony. Now, prisoner, does this axe belong to you?”
“Yes, your honor.”
“And this hammer?”
“And these nails?”
“Yes, your worship’s reverence.”
“Now, Christopher Connell, farmer, aged forty-two, were not that axe and this hammer and those nails designed to be used for nefarious and revolutionary purposes? You see we are thoroughly posted on your diabolical plots. Make an open breast of the matter, and I’ll try how far my influence will go with the Crown in procuring a mitigation of your penalty. Conceal anything, and you will find me adamant. What do you say?”
“Well, thin, your grace, I had the axe for nothin’ but cuttin’ firewood with; the hammer was my father’s; sure, he was a blacksmith, the heavens be his bed; and the nails—the nails—the troth, I don’t know what I wanted the nails for at all. You can make a present of them to the sarjent.”
“Miserable man! Your ill-timed wit will injure instead of serving you. The axe and hammer were to be used in breaking open the doors of police barracks, and the nails, no doubt, were to be employed in hand grenades.”