I suppose I must have answered Mr. Blackburn’s opening, leading questions with some measure of sanity and coherence, though I never could recall what they were, or indeed having heard them at all. Then the mist cleared from my eyes, I braced my limbs, and felt as cool and compassed as ever I did in my life. I told the Bench of the conversation I had overheard at Pots and Pans, and how I had straightway taken council with my father, feeling the case to be one for older heads than mine.
“The prisoner’s a friend of yours?” asked Mr. Alison
“Say, rather, an acquaintance,” I corrected.
“You know he’s a notorious poacher”
“I’ve never seen him poaching,” I replied, an answer which, on subsequent reflection, in which I recalled certain episodes in which I was as much concerned as Ephraim, I felt to have been capable of some modification. But that was ancient history.
“Never seen him, no, probably not. I asked you isn’t he a notorious poacher?”
“You must define ‘notorious.’”
“A chip of the old block, I see. We must have definitions for the Ranter’s son. You know well enough what the word means, sir. And answer the question.”
“If it means ‘well-known,’ I can only say he is not so known to me. If others have other knowledge they must speak to it, not I.” I’ll swear I saw Ruth, out of the corner of my eyes, gently clapping her hands together. She told me afterwards she had never given me credit for so much gumption.
“And how do you account for these hares being found in the prisoner’s possession?”