This gave immense encouragement to an independent juryman, who evidently was determined to beard the lion in his den, and possibly shake off "the dewdrops of his British indignation."
I never believed in British lions, except on his Majesty's quarterings; and although they look very formidable in heraldry, I never found them so in fact. Indeed, if the British lion was ever a native of the British Isles, he must have become extinct, for I have never heard so much as an imitation growl from him except in Hyde Park on a Sunday.
The British lion, however, in this case seemed to assert himself in the jury-box, and rising on his hind legs, said in a husky voice, which appeared to come from some concealed cupboard in his bosom,—
"My lord!"
"Yes?" I said in my blandest manner.
"My lord, this 'ere —— is a little bit stiff, my lord, with all respect for your lordship."
"What is that, sir?"
"Why, my lord, I've been cramped up in this 'ere narrer box for fourteen hours, and the seat's that hard and the back so straight up that now I gets out on it I ain't got a leg to stand on."
"I'm sorry for the chair," I said.
He was a very thick-set man, and the whole of the jury burst into a laugh. Then he went on, with tears in his eyes,—