[Note.--The author is surprised, not to say pained, at the conspiracy
of silence on the part of the daily Press, as a result of which he is
left to write this matter up himself. However ...]
A sombre court-house of Quarter Sessions, the light with difficulty
penetrating the dusty panes of the windows. On the so-called Bench
sits the Bench so-called; in point of fact there are half-a-dozen ripe
aldermen sitting on chairs, in the midst of which is an arm-chair, and
in it Mr. Augustus Jones, the Recorder of Bilbury.
Born in 1873 of rich but respectable parents; called, with no uncertain
voice, to the Bar in 1894; of a weighty corpulence and stormy visage,
Mr. Jones now settles himself in his arm-chair to hear and determine
all this business about Absalom Adkins and the Boots. How admirably
impressive is Mr. Jones's typically English absence of hysteria, his
calm, his restfulness. Indeed, give Mr. Jones five minutes to himself
and it is even betting he would be fast asleep.
The Clerk of the Court with awful dignity suggests getting a move on.
Mr. Blaythwayte{original had "Blathwayte"} who, as well as Clerk of the
Court is also Town Clerk of Bilbury, was born in 1850 and, having
survived the intervening years, now demands the production of the
prisoner from below. Looking at this dignitary one gets the poetic
impression of a mass of white hair, white moustache, white whiskers,
white beard and white wig, with little bits of bright red face appearing
in between. From a crevice in one of these patches come the ominous
words, of which we catch but a sample or two: "... Prisoner at the bar
... for that you did ... steal, take and carry away ... pairs of boots
... of our Lord the King, his crown and dignity."
At this moment there arrives in court a sinister figure wearing the wig
and gown so much affected by the English Bar. Plainly a man of character
and of moment; obviously selected with great care for this highly
difficult and delicate matter. His features are sharp, clean-cut. One
feels that they have been sharpened and cut clean this very morning. In
his hand he holds the fateful brief, pregnant with damnatory facts. He
makes his way into the pen reserved "For Counsel only." The usher locks
him in for safety's sake.