For a time the scene was one of consternation. The judge was but a poor, senile, old man, from whom the tears were leaping. Every official looked towards him for his prop and stay, but all there was to see was feeble and inept old age. The Clerk of Arraigns, as pale as a ghost and trembling violently, was spreading his hands before an alderman. Policemen stood dismayed, and officers of the court, who had grown old and despotic in its service, looked towards one another helplessly, seeking for that authority which none had the power to exercise.
“I never thought,” said the companion of the fat barrister, “we should come to this in England. It is a disgrace to English justice. That fellow must be brought before the general council. They must take away his wig and gown.”
“A little less prejudice and a little more appreciation, dear boy,” said the fat barrister, wiping his eyes stealthily. “That lad will be a peer of the realm long before they make you a stipendiary.”
“He is either the greatest madman or the greatest genius who was ever called to the bar.”
“Probably both, dear boy.”
XXVIII
THE SUMMING UP
The barrister who had ventured to give a public expression to his opinion was that nursling of wealth, the youthful ex-president of the Oxford Union.
“You’ve done it now,” said the son of the Master of the Rolls. “They will have in the roof. They were only waiting for a leader.”
“With all respect to your school,” said the ex-president heatedly, “this fellow is a disgrace to it, also to his profession. It was the act of a black-guard to throw that at the judge. He is not a gentleman.”
“Rough, of course, on the poor old judge, but he’s playing to win, as he always did. Hullo, the poor old boy is coming up to the scratch.”