“There's too many of these blighted shirkers, and too much pampering of them.”
The turmoil in Mr. Bosengate increased; he remarked in an icy voice:
“I agree to no verdict that'll send the man back to prison.”
At this a real tremor seemed to go round the table, as if they all saw themselves sitting there through lunch time. Then the large grey-haired man given to winking, said:
“Oh! Come, sir—after what the judge said! Come, sir! What do you say, Mr. Foreman?”
Gentleman Fox—as who should say 'This is excellent value, but I don't wish to press it on you!'—answered:
“We are only concerned with the facts. Did he or did he not try to shorten his life?”
“Of course he did—said so himself,” Mr. Bosengate heard the wire-haired man snap out, and from the following murmur of assent he alone abstained. Guilty! Well—yes! There was no way out of admitting that, but his feelings revolted against handing “that poor little beggar” over to the tender mercy of his country's law. His whole soul rose in arms against agreeing with that ill-bred little cur, and the rest of this job-lot. He had an impulse to get up and walk out, saying: “Settle it your own way. Good morning.”
“It seems, sir,” Gentleman Fox was saying, “that we're all agreed to guilty, except yourself. If you will allow me, I don't see how you can go behind what the prisoner himself admitted.”
Thus brought up to the very guns, Mr. Bosengate, red in the face, thrust his hands deep into the side pockets of his tunic, and, staring straight before him, said: