[7—Without the Option]
The evidence was all in. The machinery of the law had worked without a hitch. And the beak, having adjusted a pair of pince-nez which looked as though they were going to do a nose dive any moment, coughed like a pained sheep and slipped us the bad news. 'The prisoner, Wooster,' he said—and who can paint the shame and agony of Bertram at hearing himself so described?—'will pay a fine of five pounds.'
'Oh, rather!' I said. 'Absolutely! Like a shot!'
I was dashed glad to get the thing settled at such a reasonable figure. I gazed across what they call the sea of faces till I picked up Jeeves, sitting at the back. Stout fellow, he had come to see the young master through his hour of trial.
'I say, Jeeves,' I sang out, 'have you got a fiver? I'm a bit short.'
'Silence!' bellowed some officious blighter.
'It's all right,' I said; 'just arranging the financial details. Got the stuff, Jeeves?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Good egg!'