“Seems pretty square,” said Richard modestly. “He doesn’t say what a good dentist I was, though. My! the dozens I used to pull out; and—oh, I say—look here, he says nothing about Blondel, and the tune I composed. That’s far more important than the Crusades. It was an andante in F minor, you know, and—”
“That’ll do, that’ll do, Dicky. We’ve heard that before,” interrupted the judge. “Score him down half a lie, Nigger, and call up Johnny.”
“‘King John, surnamed Lackland, was a wicked king. He was forced to yield to the barons, and he lost all his clothes in the Wash.’”
“Well, I never!” said John, foaming with rage; “if that isn’t the coolest bit of lying I ever heard! Here have I been and worn my fingers to the bone writing Magna Charta and giving England all her liberties, and he never once mentions it! My lord and gentlemen, I should like to read you the document I hold in my hand, in order that you may judge—”
“What, eh? Read that thing?” exclaimed Henry the Eighth, in horror. “You’d better try it on, that’s all. Good gracious me, what next? I’ve a good mind to commit you for contempt of court. The question is, were you a wicked king? and did you lose your clothes in the Wash?”
“I am surprised and pained that your lordship should ask me either question. When I assure you, my lord and gentlemen, that a more dutiful son, a wiser monarch, a tenderer husband, and a more estimable man than the humble individual who now addresses you, never drew—”
“Teeth,” put in Richard I.
“No, breath,” continued John. “And when I further tell you that I never even sent my clothes to the wash, and therefore could not possibly have lost them there, you will—”
“All right, pull up,” said the judge. “That’ll do. Keep the rest, my boy. That makes ten and a half—more than we want. Now, then, the next thing is, what sort of execution shall we have?”
“Oh, please,” said the ladies, “please, Harry, darling, let the jury go out and bring the verdict in. It will be such fun.”