The former was dressed in deep black, with a white neck-cloth, and black cotton gloves a great deal too large for his hands: he had also put black crape round his hat, in the hope of creating the sympathy of the Commissioners by producing the impression of having sustained some serious and recent family loss. His sallow face was elongated with the awful sanctimoniousness which characterised it: his black hair was combed sleekly down over his forehead;—and he sate bolt upright on the hard bench, every now and then raising his eyes to heaven—or rather to the lanthorn on the roof of the Court—as if in silent prayer.
Mr. Frank Curtis was attired in his habitually flash manner; and as he lolled back in his seat, he now and then bestowed a significant wink upon his attorney at the table, or exchanged a few familiar observations with the tipstaff, whom he had treated to egg-hot at the public-house opposite before they entered the Court.
But where was Captain O’Blunderbuss? Had he deserted his friend on this trying occasion? Gentle reader, do not suppose for an instant that the gallant officer was capable of what he himself would describe to be the “most bastely maneness”—so long as Frank had a shilling left in his pocket, or the ability to raise one! The captain, then, was there—and in the vicinity of Mr. Curtis; for the terrible Irishman had posted himself as near as possible to the box in which the Insolvents stand to be examined—in the first place, that when Frank should mount to that “bad eminence,” he might be close by to encourage him with his looks; and, in the second place, he had taken that particular stand as the one whence he could best dart ferocious glances at the Commissioners, in case these functionaries should take it into their heads to deal harshly with his friend.
And now the business of that day’s proceeding, commenced; and the Clerk of the Court bawled out in a loud tone—“Joshua Sheepshanks!”
“Here, my Christian friend!” groaned the religious gentleman, drawing himself slowly up to his full, thin, lanky height, and beginning to move slowly and solemnly towards the box above-mentioned.
“Now, then—Joshua Sheepshanks!” cried the clerk, in a sharp tone.
“Come—Joshua Sheepshanks—look alive!” grumbled the official who administers the oaths to the Insolvents.
“Cut along, old fellow,” whispered Frank Curtis, giving the sanctimonious dissenter a hearty pinch on the leg as he passed by.
Mr. Sheepshanks uttered a low moan—cast up his eyes towards the lanthorn—muttered something about his having “fallen amongst the ungodly”—and ended by hoisting himself into the box with some degree of alacrity, his slow movements having rendered the Court impatient.
“Does any counsel appear for you, Joshua Sheepshanks?” demanded the clerk.