“Sheeawn’t. I arn’t done nothin’, I tell yer. No business to bring me here.”
“Silence, sir,” cried Wilton, taking up a pen and shaking it at the lad, which acted upon him as if it were some terrible judicial wand which might write a document consigning him to hard labour, skilly, and bread and water in the county jail. The consequence being that he stood with his head bent forward, brow one mass of wrinkles, and mouth partly open, staring at the fierce-looking justice of the peace.
“Listen to me: you are not brought here for punishment.”
“Well, I arn’t done nothin’,” said the lad.
“I am glad to hear it, and I hope you will improve, Barker. Now, what you have to do is to answer a few questions, and if you do so truthfully and well, you will be rewarded.”
“Beer?” said the lout, with a grin.
“My servant will give you some beer as you go out, but first of all I shall give you a shilling.”
The fellow grinned.
“Shall I get the book and swear him, sir?” said Samuel, who was used to the library being turned into a court for petty cases.
“There is no need,” said Wilton austerely. “Now, my lad, answer me.”