_Mr. Augustus Jones._ Recorder. Born in 1873.{missing period in
original}
_Mr. Joseph K. Blaythwayte._ Clerk of the Court. Born in 1850.
_Absalom Adkins_, of uncertain age, supposed boot-fancier.
_Our Lord the King_, whose peace, crown and dignity are reported
to have been rudely disturbed by the alleged activities of
Absalom Adkins.
Who is this strong silent man, this robed counsellor trusted with the
case of the Crown? Who is it? It is I! Born in the year--but if I'm to
tell my life story it's a thousand pounds I want. Make it guineas and
I will include portraits of self and relations, with place of birth,
inset.
The scenario (or do we mean the scene?) is now complete. Leading
characters, minor characters, chorus, supernumeraries and I myself
are all on the stage. Absalom Adkins, clad in a loose-fitting corduroy
lounge suit and his neck encased in a whitish kerchief, rises from his
seat. Mr. Jones, the Recorder, does much as he was doing before--nothing
in particular. Counsel for the prosecution re-reads his brief,
underlines the significant points, forgets that his pencil is a blue
one and licks it. On a side-table, impervious to their surroundings and
apparently unconcerned with their significance, sit the crucial boots.
"How say you, Absalom Adkins"--such the concluding words of the Clerk,
the finish of the prologue which rings up the curtain on this human
drama--"how say you? Are you guilty or not guilty?"
"Guilty," says Absalom, and that ends it.
* * * * *
Later a large and enthusiastic crowd outside (had there been one) might
have seen a man with clean and sharp-cut features carrying a bag in
one hand and an umbrella in the other, stepping lightly on to a Bilbury
corporation tram, station bound. This is the counsel for the prosecution
(still me), his grave responsibilities honourably discharged, hurrying
back to the vortex of metropolitan life.