"That, I beg leave to suggest, is a question entirely irrelevant."
"Is it? Fell then, fy don't you answer it?"
"'Pshaw!" mumbled Affidavy, who was perhaps wearying of a sport he did not himself direct. "Squire, you may discharge the witness: we have laid our heads together and agreed upon a finding."
"Fat! mitout me?"
"Certainly. You don't think you are to make the verdict?—The witness will be pleased to retire," he added, and the lieutenant, looking once more on the dead, immediately withdrew.
"We find, Squire," the attorney went on, "that the deceased came to his death in consequence of a pistol-bullet shot into his neck by Hyland Gilbert, otherwise called Herman Hunter. If you want to be learned about jugulars, carotids, parotids, and so on, we will call in Dr. Muller, and have him examine the wound."
"Fy, I don't know any thing about them things; put I don't see that you say any thing apout murder?"
"Not a word: as you said yourself to Jack Darby here, the coroner's jury is not the hanging jury."
"Fell now, the matter's finished, and I am ferry glad. I suppose it is all right?"
"Entirely—the young Hawk is as dead as a chicken."