“Yes, or no!”
“No.”
“That’s all.” He waves the prisoner down with an air of mighty triumph, turns to the recorder, “trusts it is not necessary to,” etc., and the accused passes this way or that, according to the fate decreed,—discharged, sentenced to fine and imprisonment, or committed for trial before the courts of the State.
“Order in court!” There is too much talking. Another comes and stands before the rail, and goes his way. Another, and another; now a ragged boy, now a half-sobered crone, now a battered ruffian, and now a painted girl of the street, and at length one who starts when his name is called, as though something had exploded.
“John Richling!”
“Stand there!”
Some one is in the witness-stand, speaking. The prisoner partly hears, but does not see. He stands and holds the rail, with his eyes fixed vacantly on the clerk, who bends over his desk under the seat of justice, writing. The lawyers notice him. His dress has been laboriously genteel, but is torn and soiled. A detective, with small eyes set close together, and a nose like a yacht’s rudder, whisperingly calls the notice of one of these spectators who can see the prisoner’s face to the fact that, for all its thinness and bruises, it is not a bad one. All can see that the man’s hair is fine and waving where it is not matted with blood.
The testifying officer had moved as if to leave the witness-stand, when the recorder restrained him by a gesture, and, leaning forward and looking down upon the prisoner, asked:—
“Have you anything to say to this?”