The light fell and my eyes rested on a sandy-haired youth with a receding chin, a black eye, a crumpled shirt-front smeared with blood, and a dress-suit split and soiled with much rolling in the dust.
"Friend of yours, sir, to bail you out," announced the sergeant.
"I have no friends," answered the prisoner in hollow tones. "Who's this Johnny?"
"My name is Richardson," I began.
"From the Grampian Hills? Al' ri', old man; what can I do for you?"
"Well, if you've no objection, I've come to bail you out."
"Norra a bit of it. Go 'way: I want t'other Richardson, good old larks-in-aspic! Sergeant—"
"Yessir."
"I protest—you hear?—protest in sacred name of law; case of mish—case of mistaken 'dentity. Not this Richardson—take him away! Don't blame you: common name. Richardson I want has whiskers down to here, tiddy-fol-ol; calls 'em 'Piccadilly weepers.' Can't mistake him. If at first you don't succeed, try, try again."
"Look here," said I, "just you listen to this; I'm Richardson, and I'm here to bail you out."