We went back to the Court, and our case was dismissed with ignominy and costs. Freemantle, indeed, had not said a word too much about it. I
was very sorry for Professor Munro, for he was a sincere and keen worker for the Liberal party, and those who advised with him in the early stages of the petition had grievously misled him; no one supposes the election was conducted without errors, but things on the other side were not as black as the Liberals imagined.
Certainly no word was ever spoken or thought by the most ardent Radical against Mr. Balfour, the nominal defendant. His popularity in Manchester remained and still remains undiminished. No one in the political world was better loved than Mr. Balfour by all sorts and conditions of Manchester men. Even to the very last those who had always voted against him voted with regret, for they felt they were parting with the first gentleman in English politics. As an Ardwick man said in defence of himself and some of his friends, “Nay, mon, it’s not Arthur James Balfour we’re tired of—it’s his politics.”
And that reminds me—not directly, I agree, but I will not waste another page in tracing out the connection—that reminds me of the story of “The Good Man and the Manilla Bills.” A certain principal brought an action against a firm of very respected merchants. The merchants had acted in large concerns as his agents. They had shipped goods for him for many years to foreign parts and had had complicated financial dealings with him. He now asserted that for years the merchants had been defrauding him, and asked for all the accounts to be opened between them and taken afresh. This
was, of course, a very serious charge indeed, and when the case came before the Chancery Court the sole representative of the firm of merchants was the Good Man, who I am happy to relate is still with us.
It is not for a common law man like myself to criticise the ways of a Palatine Chancery Court. Astbury was my leader, and I was only one of the team of three who defended the Good Man. Why I was there I never rightly understood, but I think I was there to sympathise with the Good Man in his trouble while Astbury and his eminent solicitor, the cashier and an eminent and chartered accountant played hide and seek among the ledgers. Technically, perhaps, I was taken into the case to cross-examine, but I don’t remember doing it. These Chancery fellows love doing it, and as the men on the other side were Chancery men, and as no one knew anything about the law of evidence—least of all the Court—what did it matter? The case lasted forty odd days. That was to the credit of Chancery procedure. The leaders arranged each day how far they should go, and the Court was only too glad to rise when told that “this” was a convenient moment, as they were now coming to the Manilla bills. And that reminds me that it is time I came to the Manilla bills. They were a nightmare to Astbury, the eminent solicitor, the cashier and the eminent and chartered accountant. I do not know that they affected my sleep, but I gathered they were the weak point in our case and were probably going to ruin the Good Man, and that made me very
sorry. For the worry about the Manilla bills was that in some mysterious monetary manner, in passing through banks and ledgers and other financial filters, it had so panned out that a quarter—or was it an eighth?—per cent. that belonged undoubtedly to the plaintiff, remained in the coffers of the Good Man. It was the most complicated affair, but there it was. The fact must be found against us, and then as the Good Man was an agent dealing with the monies of his principal, would not the Court take the view that this was fraud, and order the whole account to be re-opened? The more we talked over this the more exasperating it became. The cashier, who had found the system in the office when he came there, was rather proud of it, and blankly refused to believe there was anything wrong about it. The Good Man smilingly gave us sixteen different explanations of the matter, which Astbury rejected with a scorn that caused the eminent solicitor to grow visibly older. Astbury insisted in his clear logical way on a clear logical defence of our treatment of the Manilla bills. The difficulty was there wasn’t one. Even if we could have invented a theoretical one the Good Man would have given it away honestly and simply the first time he was asked. So there we were with the Manilla bills ahead of us and within a day or two of the time when we had to put our Good Man in the box to explain his dealings with them.
“Well!” said Astbury in despair, “I shall have to lead him through the best explanation we have got.”
“In the Palatine Court that is always possible,” I answered; “but isn’t it fatal?”
Astbury groaned.