“It was a sort of a raft, sir,” I stammered.
“A sort of a raft,” repeated my father. “Where, may I ask, did you find it?”
“I—I didn't exactly find it, sir.”
“Ah!” said my father. (It was the moment to glance meaningly at the jury.) The prisoner gulped. “You didn't exactly find it, then. Will you kindly explain how you came by it?”
“Well, sir, we—I—put it together.”
“Have you any objection to stating, Hugh, in plain English, that you made it?”
“No, sir, I suppose you might say that I made it.”
“Or that it was intended for a row-boat?”
Here was the time to appeal, to force a decision as to what constituted a row-boat.
“Perhaps it might be called a row-boat, sir,” I said abjectly.