“Not guilty, your Honors.”
“We will proceed to trial,” said Jim solemnly.
“They deserve the rope’s end for their impudence,” growled the captain.
Old Pete was the first witness and he was much impressed by the dignity of the court, as was evident as he limped in with his hat, or rather cap, in hand. He took the stand, which was an armchair placed facing the court, beyond the end of the table. No sooner had he seated himself than the Sea Eagle gave a sudden lurch to the starboard, and he would have gone, chair and all, into the wall if John Berwick had not caught him.
“Beg pardon, your Honors, but this thing ain’t anchored right.”
“What is your name?” inquired Jim.
“Peter McCloskey, sir.”
“Where were you born, Mr. McCloskey?”
“On a farm near Darien, Connecticut,” was the answer.
“What is your present occupation?”