Precise. Mr. Slow, you next.
Slow. Hey? Yes. Well, I don’t know. Popgun did make gunpowder, I guess, cause he had a little shop. (Pauses.)
Precise. Well, go on, Mr. Slow.
Slow. Yes. Well, he had a little shop, Popgun had, and he made somethin’ in that shop; and if he didn’t make gunpowder, he made somethin’ in that little shop that he didn’t pay no tax onto. And so he’s guilty er somethin’ or other in that little shop. So long’s he’s caught, what’s the odds, as long as you’re happy. (Sits.)
Snowball. Doubted, doubted.
All. Order.
Precise. Mr. Blower.
Blower (rises, flourishes his handkerchief, blows his nose, strikes an attitude). M-r-r-r-r. Foreman, and genteelmen of the jury, it is with spontaneous emotion that I rise to address you. You, genteelmen, with me, have looked upon a touching scene to-day. We have seen an enlightened citizen of this great republic, which, like the light of yonder firmament, attracts the attention of the whole world. We have seen him dragged from the bosom of his family and placed at the bar, at the bar, gentlemen, there to answer to grave and serious charges. It is evident that in the mysterious depths of that little back shop something has been concocted. The government says “Powder;” the defendant says “Shot.” Powder and shot! “Powder” or “shot,” in this case. One possesses the power to blow the human frame into infinitesimal particles; the other cures all ills that flesh is heir to. Can we pause and deliberate? Look at that man, dragged from the bosom of his family; his wife and children——
Jolly. Beg your pardon, Blower. Popgun is single.
Blower. Hey? Dragged from the paternal mansion. Hear the cry of the agonized and aged mother of the prisoner, as she stands upon the doorstep and screams, “My child! Bring back my little Popgun!”