"How did you manage it, my good friend—how did you manage? It was a wonderful verdict—wonderful!"
"Oh," said he, "I was determined not to budge. I never budge.
Conscience is ever my guide."
"I suppose there were eleven to one against you?"
"Eleven to one! A tough job, sir—a tough job."
"Eleven for wilful murder, eh?" said the jubilant young man. "Dear me, what a narrow squeak!"
"Eleven for murder! No, sir!" exclaimed the juror.
"What, then?"
"Eleven for an acquittal! You may depend upon it, sir, the other jurors had been 'got at.'"
Lord Watson, dining with me one Grand Day at Gray's Inn, said he recollected a very stupid and a very rude Scottish Judge (which seems very remarkable) who scarcely ever listened to an advocate, and pooh-poohed everything that was said.
One day a celebrated advocate was arguing before him, when, to express his contempt of what he was saying, the cantankerous old curmudgeon of a Judge pointed with one forefinger to one of his ears, and with the other to the opposite one.