The chief witness against Sullivan was, of course, the aggrieved Graham, who appeared in the box, his head all swathed in bandages and plasters. He told a piteous tale. He was a homeless, inoffensive man that lodged at Duskin’s, and wouldn’t harm a fly, so he said. He had been refreshing himself after the labours of the day at the house of a friend, and at an early hour had sought his humble lodgings and his virtuous couch. But he had no sooner entered the door of that sacred spot—where peace should reign, whatever broils disturb the street—than that cowardly brute, as strong as an ox and as raging as a lion, had leaped upon him, beaten down his feeble defence, and left him senseless on the ground. His wounds were there for their Worships and all the world to see, and so forth.
Unfortunately for Graham, Beaumont had a memory and Graham an unwary tongue. Looking at Beaumont’s face as he rose to cross examine the witness, one would have read there nothing but compassion and sympathy with the complainant in his great and unmerited wrongs. Sister Gertrude confided to Ellen, when all was over, that her heart failed her at that moment, for she feared the plausible rogue’s canting tongue had imposed on their chosen champion. “He is so young, you know,” But Ellen had smiled superior.
“Let me see, Graham,” Edward began, in an insinuating voice, “I think you did not tell us your age.”
“Forty-four, your honour, if I live till Christmas.”
“And what trade may you be?”
“A mason, sorr.”
“May I feel your hands?”
“’Deed, they’re too dirty, sir.”
“Oh, never mind. His Worship might tell you lawyers are used to dirt. But, indeed, they are dirty, and soft, too; very soft. Where do you work?”
“’Deed, sorr, just at the time present I’m out of a job.”