“Yes, sir.”
“Which is John Smith?”
“The man on the other side.”
“Very well.”
Then there is an expectant lull. It is
EIGHT SECONDS TO TEN.
As soon as the last second is buried in the grave of time that side door will open and the Magistrate will come in. The bells in St. James’ steeple go “kling, ling, ling”—there, didn’t I tell you. The side door swings suddenly open and to sharp cries of “Order! Order!” a tall, handsome military man with iron gray hair and moustache and dressed chiefly in a frock coat, the tails of which are flying behind him, darts into the room and with three long dragoon-like strides is in his seat. He fires a little battery of nods all round and the deputy steps up to swear to the informations. Then he whispers with the deputy a moment and smiles. Then he leans over and whispers with the clerk and laughs noiselessly, then he clears his throat, surveys the court room with the eagle glance of a veteran reviewing a troop of hussars, and finally consults the docket before him. He looks up sharply at the two wretches standing in the dock and asks which is John Smith. John is terribly sober, red-eyed, and befrousled.
“John Smith, you are charged with being drunk on ⸺ street on the ⸺ of May. Were you drunk?”
“Yer ’anner, I was afther going down to ⸺.”
“Were you drunk!”