The first decent word I had spoken to me after that for months came
from my turnkey at Newgate. It was when he welcomed me back from my
examination before the Thames Court magistrate. The magistrate, a
bad-tempered man, snuffy, with red eyes, and the air of being a piece of
worn and dirty furniture of his court, had snapped at me when I tried to
speak:
“Keep your lies for the Admiralty Session. I’ve only time to commit you.
Damn your Spaniards; why can’t they translate their own papers;” had
signed something with a squeaky quill, tossed it to his clerk, and
grunted, “Next case.”