Pot. No.
Mr. H. What did they do?
Pot. Well, they took grinders at me and said, “Sold!”
Mr. H. Meaning, doubtless, that they had had an inkling of your search and had sold the arms?
Pot. So we gathered.
J. N. (writing). “They did not find the arms because they had been sold.”
Mr. H. Well, Constable, that will do.
J. N. Prisoner, do you wish to ask the Constable any questions?
J. F. Well, I don’t know. I strongly suspect that you have made up your mind which way the jury shall make up their
minds, so it isn’t much use. However, I will ask him three questions. Constable Potlegoff, at how many do you estimate the dense crowd at Beadon Road, when I obstructed?