It was in the fourth year of my apprenticeship to Joe, and it was a

Saturday night. There was a group assembled round the fire at the Three

Jolly Bargemen, attentive to Mr. Wopsle as he read the newspaper aloud.

Of that group I was one.

A highly popular murder had been committed, and Mr. Wopsle was imbrued

in blood to the eyebrows. He gloated over every abhorrent adjective

in the description, and identified himself with every witness at the

Inquest. He faintly moaned, "I am done for," as the victim, and he

barbarously bellowed, "I'll serve you out," as the murderer. He gave the

medical testimony, in pointed imitation of our local practitioner; and

he piped and shook, as the aged turnpike-keeper who had heard blows, to

an extent so very paralytic as to suggest a doubt regarding the mental

competency of that witness. The coroner, in Mr. Wopsle's hands, became

Timon of Athens; the beadle, Coriolanus. He enjoyed himself thoroughly,

and we all enjoyed ourselves, and were delightfully comfortable. In this

cosey state of mind we came to the verdict Wilful Murder.

Then, and not sooner, I became aware of a strange gentleman leaning over

the back of the settle opposite me, looking on. There was an expression

of contempt on his face, and he bit the side of a great forefinger as he

watched the group of faces.

"Well!" said the stranger to Mr. Wopsle, when the reading was done, "you

have settled it all to your own satisfaction, I have no doubt?"

Everybody started and looked up, as if it were the murderer. He looked

at everybody coldly and sarcastically.

"Guilty, of course?" said he. "Out with it. Come!"

"Sir," returned Mr. Wopsle, "without having the honor of your

acquaintance, I do say Guilty." Upon this we all took courage to unite

in a confirmatory murmur.

"I know you do," said the stranger; "I knew you would. I told you so.

But now I'll ask you a question. Do you know, or do you not know,

that the law of England supposes every man to be innocent, until he is

proved-proved--to be guilty?"

"Sir," Mr. Wopsle began to reply, "as an Englishman myself, I--"

"Come!" said the stranger, biting his forefinger at him. "Don't evade

the question. Either you know it, or you don't know it. Which is it to

be?"

He stood with his head on one side and himself on one side, in a

Bullying, interrogative manner, and he threw his forefinger at Mr.

Wopsle,--as it were to mark him out--before biting it again.




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