“Give it up,” said Coeur de Lion. “Ask another.”
“Silence in the court,” cried the judge. “Put it down, Nigger, and for mercy sake drive on, or we shall be here all night.”
“‘Henry the Second murdered Thomas à Becket, and was served right by having a family of bad sons,’” read the usher.
“That’s nice!” said Henry, advancing. “Bad sons, indeed! Never had a better lot in all my life. Really, my lord, that ought to count for four lies right off. The idea of calling my Johnny a bad boy. Why, my lord, he was his father’s own boy. You’ve only to look at him; and if he was a bit of a romp, why, so were you and I in our day.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Henry the Eighth severely. “But what about Becket?”
“Ah, well, there was a little accident, I believe, about him, and he got hurt. But I assure you I never touched him; in fact, I was a hundred miles away at the time. I’ll prove an alibi if you like.”
“No, no,” said the judge; “that is quite sufficient. Chalk down two, Nigger: one for Becket and one for the bad family. How many does that come to?”
“That’s eight,” said the Black Prince. “All right. We only want two more. Go on.”
“‘Richard the First, surnamed the Lion Heart, was the strongest and bravest man in England, and won many glorious battles in the Holy Land.’”
“Hullo, I say,” said the judge. “That’s pitching it just a little strong, isn’t it? What have you got to say to that, Dicky?”