Dangle, who fancied something might come of this, was condescending enough to say he didn’t mind playing at judge, if they liked. Whereat, amid cheers, he was voted to the chair on the bed, where he sat rather precariously, and ordered silence in the court.
“Who is the prisoner?”
“Go on, kid, tell ’em your name,” said Percy, encouragingly.
“Fisher minor—really I didn’t do anything,” said the prisoner.
“What’s the charge?” said the judge.
“You see, it’s this way,” said Percy, forgetting to go inside the fender—“Bam, and Cot, and Lick and I were having a ripping eight-handed mill in here the other day—”
The prisoner thought over all his crimes, and could recall nothing that was even remotely connected with an eight-handed mill.
“Cot and Lick had got gloves with no horse-hair in them, you know, so they lammed it pretty hard; but Ram and I were just scrunching them up—”
“Crams! You never got near us. My nose wasn’t hit once,” said Cottle.
“No; but we had you in the ribs.”