And the beetle-like creature shambled forward, with arms gangling beside him, a humble, apologetic look on his care-worn face. He might have been any age from thirty to sixty; time and a perpetual struggle for existence had wiped way all traces of actual age. The cheeks were hollow, and eyes, mouth, and moustache had a droop which added to the settled melancholy of the face.
He was obviously very nervous and looked across at his own friends, who strove to encourage him by signs and whispers.
He nearly dropped the Bible when it was handed to him, and no one could really hear the oath which he repeated mechanically at the usher's bidding.
At last he mustered up a sufficient amount of courage to state his name and address.
"James Baker," he said in answer to the coroner's question. "Bricklayer by trade."
"And where do you live?"
"At 147 Clapham Junction Road, sir," replied the man, scarcely above a whisper.
"Speak up, please," admonished the coroner, "the jury can't hear you. You came here, I understand, prepared to make a statement?"
"Yes, sir."
"Of what nature?"