The prisoner lifted his eyes, bowed affirmatively, and spoke in a low, timid tone. “May I say a few words to you privately?”
“No.”
He dropped his eyes, fumbled with the rail, and, looking up suddenly, said in a stronger voice, “I want somebody to go to my wife—in Prieur street. She is starving. This is the third day”—
“We’re not talking about that,” said the recorder. “Have you anything to say against this witness’s statement?”
The prisoner looked upon the floor and slowly shook his head. “I never meant to break the law. I never expected to stand here. It’s like an awful dream. Yesterday, at this time, I had no more idea of this—I didn’t think I was so near it. It’s like getting caught in machinery.” He looked up at the recorder again. “I’m so confused”—he frowned and drew his hand slowly across his brow—“I can hardly—put my words together. I was hunting for work. There is no man in this city who wants to earn an honest living more than I do.”
“What’s your trade?”
“I have none.”
“I supposed not. But you profess to have some occupation, I dare say. What’s your occupation?”
“Accountant.”
“Hum! you’re all accountants. How long have you been out of employment?”