“I’ve worked hard,” said he, “for sixty year, and let any man come forrard and say I’ve wronged man, ooman, or child!”
That was a point for Bumpkin. Every one said, “Poor old man!” and even his Lordship, who was supposed to have no feeling, was quite sympathetic. Only Mr. Ricochet was obtuse. He had no heart, and very little skill, or he would have managed his case more adroitly. “Badgering” is not much use if you have no better mode of winning your case.
“Stand down, Mr. Bumpkin,” said his counsel, as Mr. Ricochet resumed his seat amid the suppressed hisses of the gallery.
“Joseph Wurzel,” said Mr. Silverspoon.
Joe appeared in the uniform of the Hussars. And he wore a medal too. Mr. Ricochet had no sympathy
with heroes any more than he had with men of letters, artists, or any other class of talent. He was a dry, uncompromising, blunt, unfeeling lawyer, looking at justice as a thimblerig looks at his pea; lift which thimble you may, he will take care the pea shall not be found if he can help it. He smiled a grim, inhuman smile at Bumpkin’s tears, and muttered that he was an “unmanly milksop.”
Joe gave his evidence briefly and without hesitation. Everyone could see he was speaking the truth; everybody but Mr. Ricochet, who commenced his cross-examination by telling him to be careful, and that he was upon his oath.
“Be careful, sir;” he repeated.
Joe looked.
“You are on your oath, sir.” Joe faced him.