“Nor is a foul Plot to be smothered,” said the Attorney, “for all the haste your lordship is in. I cannot call Master Chiffinch neither, as he is employed on the King’s especial affairs, as I am this instant certiorated from the Court at Whitehall.”
“Produce the papers, then, Master Attorney, of which this young man is said to be the bearer,” said the Judge.
“They are before the Privy Council, my lord.”
“Then why do you found on them here?” said the Judge—“This is something like trifling with the Court.”
“Since your lordship gives it that name,” said the Attorney, sitting down in a huff, “you may manage the cause as you will.”
“If you do not bring more evidence, I pray you to charge the Jury,” said the Judge.
“I shall not take the trouble to do so,” said the Crown Counsel. “I see plainly how the matter is to go.”
“Nay, but be better advised,” said Scroggs. “Consider, your case is but half proved respecting the two Peverils, and doth not pinch on the little man at all, saving that Doctor Oates said that he was in a certain case to prove a giant, which seems no very probable Popish miracle.”
This sally occasioned a laugh in the Court, which the Attorney-General seemed to take in great dudgeon.
“Master Attorney,” said Oates, who always interfered in the management of these law-suits, “this is a plain an absolute giving away of the cause—I must needs say it, a mere stoifling of the Plaat.”