“Couldn’t get it.”
“Steady, hard-working cooper like you; what was the reason you couldn’t get bail?”
“Steady, hard-working cooper hadn’t no friends. Well, souse I went into a wet cell, like a canal-boat splashing into the lock; locked up in pickle, d’ye see? against the time of the trial.”
“But what had you done?”
“Why, I hadn’t got any friends, I tell ye. A worse crime than murder, as ye’ll see afore long.”
“Murder? Did the wounded man die?”
“Died the third night.”
“Then the gentleman’s bail didn’t help him. Imprisoned now, wasn’t he?”
“Had too many friends. No, it was I that was imprisoned.—But I was going on: They let me walk about the corridor by day; but at night I must into lock. There the wet and the damp struck into my bones. They doctored me, but no use. When the trial came, I was boosted up and said my say.”
“And what was that?”