“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” said the prisoner, who began to hope that the charge against him was to prove much less serious than he had at first feared, “I apologise.”
“Shut up, don’t talk to me—talk to the jury.”
As the jury at this moment was struggling manfully to protect his hassock from the depredations of Cash, who was anxious to investigate its interior, it was not much use addressing him; so Fisher subsided, and wished the hole of Percy’s wash-stand had been at least so much easier in diameter as to allow him room to sigh.
“Fire away,” said the judge, “we shall be all night at this.”
“Well, you see,” continued Percy, “it’s this way. I’ve got a brother, you know, called Wally, a seedy Classic chap, and up to no end of low tricks.”
“We know him,” echoed the court generally.
“Not got such a rummy-shaped waist as his brother, though,” whispered Cottle.
“All right, young Cottle, I’ll take it out of you, you’ll see.”
“What’ll you take! I keep mine outside,” replied Cottle.
“Order in the court. Forge away, Wheatfield.”