Gentlemen, Popgun is a dangerous man. I am for his annihilation. He is a second Guy Fawkes. Behind his shop are concealed those explosive materials destined to spread havoc and destruction in an innocent neighborhood. We might spare him if the possible destruction of a thousand or two of his immediate neighbors was the only consequence to be feared. But he’s a sneak; he dodges the tax. That we must not suffer. The medicine story won’t do; the dose is too heavy; it won’t stay on the stomach. That gun recoils upon Popgun, who is too heavily charged by the evidence to be discharged by this jury. (Sits.)
Precise. Order, gentlemen. Mr. Doubtful.
Snowball. No, sar, no, sar. I move we lay him onto de table, sinner die.
O’Rourke. Die, is it, ye black sinner? Howld yer pate, or you’ll die jist.
Doubtful (rising). Mr. Foreman, and gentlemen of the jury, there’s one p’int in this evidence I want cleared up.
O’Rourke. Is it a pint of whiskey, I donno?
All. Order, order.
O’Rourke. That’s what I’d like to do, and drink it, too.
Doubtful. If that air Popgun made gunpowder, why didn’t somebody see him do it? Cause a man’s got saltpetre in his house, and sulphur and charcoal, it doesn’t foller that he’s going to make gunpowder. I’ve got charcoal in my house——kindle the fire with it; sulphur to bleach with; saltpetre for curing purposes. But nobody ever said I made gunpowder. It’s rediculous. Popgun’s got eggs in his store. Why don’t you say he hatched them? (Sits.)