"Don't tell me," entreated the Lord Mayor, with an imploring look in his eyes, "that he will make me, the Lord Mayor of London, a subject for his heartless gibes."
"He's certain to write two columns about it in one of to-morrow or the next day's papers," declared the Writer hopelessly. "Do you suppose such a man would waste such material and copy as that for one of his satirical eruptions?"
The Lord Mayor groaned aloud at the very thought of this new terror, which threatened to descend like the sword of Damocles and crush all the joy of his new civic dignity. With trembling hands he folded his bright robe and glittering chain of office; the Lord Mayor felt that he could no longer bear the sight of them.
"What on earth I can say to Mum for being out as late as this I don't know," lamented the Mayor dolefully; "she will, of course, believe I have been to another Pantomime; she always taxes me with having gone to a Pantomime whenever I stay out late. However," sighed the Mayor, "I shall show her the Dick Whittington which has really been the cause of all the trouble."
It may have been that Sir Simon was still unusually agitated from the scene he had recently passed through, to say nothing of the vague foreboding caused by the knowledge that Mr. Learnéd Bore might conceivably do anything within the next few days. There is a possibility that his hand trembled; whatever may have been the cause, as Sir Simon lifted the little Dick Whittington from the table, he let it fall. As it crashed upon the hard polished floor it broke into a dozen pieces, and the merry little figure of Dick Whittington was hopelessly shattered. Sir Simon looked blankly at the Writer.
The Writer looked blankly back at Sir Simon.
As poor Sir Simon ruefully picked up the pieces, he looked disconsolate enough to be upon the verge of tears. The Writer, although keenly affected by the loss, tried, although unsuccessfully, to comfort him.
"Never mind, Dad, it can't be helped, and I suppose Dick Whittington has served his day."
"To think I have broken the most perfect specimen in the world," moaned Sir Simon; "that you must have denied yourself greatly to give me, and to think I shall never be able to convince Mum now, or even mention it, for she wouldn't believe one word of the story. Besides," wound up Sir Simon, "it is so dreadfully unlucky to break china. Call me a cab, my dear boy," implored the old gentleman, "a four-wheeler, if possible; I really dare not go home in a taxi, I feel some other dreadful accident would happen to me if I did."
Upon his way home Sir Simon ruminated upon the events of the evening. He found himself unable to make up his mind which portion of the adventure had been the most discomforting to him. Finally, upon approaching the Mansion House, he caught himself indulging in speculation and uttering his thoughts aloud.
"I wonder what possible story he could have told the policeman, to get me out of that dreadful situation so quickly; and I wonder," mused Sir Simon, "why the policeman tapped his head in that curious manner; he must have told him something that appealed to him at once. I dare say even policemen have their feelings, and looking back upon matters calmly, I suppose my conduct must perhaps have appeared a little out of the ordinary. However, if I ever come across that constable again, I must try and make him a little present."
Sir Simon little realised that he was to meet the constable again very soon, and certainly never realised where, otherwise it is safe to assume that the good Sir Simon would never have slept the tranquil sleep he did that night, full of peaceful dreams, over which the Pleasant-Faced Lion presided like the protecting guardian watch-dog that the good Lord Mayor always believed him to be.
Some few mornings after the events just recorded the Lady Mayoress sat down to breakfast in one of the most cosy of the morning-rooms in their private suite in the Mansion House. A very smart manservant of quite aristocratic appearance solemnly poured out some most fragrant coffee, and removed many covers from a most delicately appetising breakfast-table, as a preliminary to removing his aristocratic presence from the room altogether. There could be no doubt that the Lady Mayoress was a singularly pretty and attractive lady, and despite her well-dressed head of iron-grey hair, looked fully fifteen years younger than her age, which is invariably a pleasing reflection for a woman who has passed the age of forty-five.
The Lady Mayoress sipped her morning coffee, and in the absence of her husband the Lord Mayor, who was late for breakfast on this occasion, unfolded the morning newspapers and started leisurely to peruse their contents.
The Lady Mayoress, being exceedingly popular, and having taken a prominent part in a number of social functions, like most women, was never averse to reading any paragraphs which might chance to mention her sayings, doings, and, more particularly, her dress. The Lady Mayoress read on; there appeared to be very little in the particular paper she was perusing that interested her, so refolding it carefully the Lady Mayoress selected another morning paper, and opening it, smiled as she read in big print, "Audacious attack by Mr. Learnéd Bore."
"Ah!" commented the Lady Mayoress, "he certainly is a particularly audacious, as well as being a very naughty man, who makes fun of everything and everybody, but at least his articles and letters are always amusing." Thereupon the smiling lady gently stirred her coffee, folded the newspaper to the required place, and proceeded to enjoy Mr. Learnéd Bore's contribution to the morning journalism.
Suddenly the little silver coffee spoon dropped from the Lady Mayoress's hand, and she sat bolt upright in her chair as if she had received a galvanic shock. At this inauspicious moment the Lord Mayor made his appearance, very jovial and full of happy morning greetings, mingled with pleasant apologies for being late.
Something in the expression of his wife's face, however, gave the worthy Lord Mayor an uncomfortable, apprehensive sort of feeling, the cheerful flow of his morning remarks died away in little sentences, as if the promise of their young life had been cut short.
The Lord Mayor chipped an egg nervously, and made a brave show of gulping his coffee.
"Well, Mum, you seem very interested in the morning paper," observed Sir Simon, with an assumption of hearty cheerfulness he was far from feeling.
Something in the expression of Mum's face seemed to baffle all analysis, as she continued to read without vouchsafing any answer. After a terrible pause the Lady Mayoress refolded the paper, and laying it upon the table, regarded her husband steadfastly with flushed face and sparkling eyes.
Sir Simon's heart seemed to sink into his boots.
"I thought you distinctly told me, Simon, when you returned, at what I can only describe as a most eccentric hour in the early morning, that you had been visiting an old friend."
"Quite right, my dear, I assure you I had. I'm right upon that point at any rate."
"You told me you had not been to a Pantomime," continued his wife, heedless of the interruption.
"No, my dear,—no Pantomime, I assure you; I never entered a theatre or a building of any such description."
"Apparently not," came the icy reply; "the Pantomime in this case appears to have taken place in the open air. Read that paper," commanded the Lady Mayoress, "and offer any suggestion you can find as to how I can keep up my position, or your position, whilst such a statement as this" (tapping the opened paper) "remains uncontradicted." Then the Lady Mayoress swept from the room.
Sir Simon groaned and closed his eyes before venturing to look at the offending article. He instinctively felt he was about to receive a shock without the necessary strength to bear it. Sir Simon gingerly unclosed one eye and read, "Audacious attack by Mr. Learnéd Bore." Sir Simon shivered and hastily closed the one eye he had opened. Then he valiantly tried both eyes and read by way of a second and happy headline, "The Lord Mayor revives Paganism in London." Sir Simon never knew how he finished that article. It was a most scurrilous attack.
All the biting satire and vitriolic irony that Mr. Learnéd Bore had so well at his command was here employed to compliment the Lord Mayor upon being acclaimed a great Christian in the afternoon after opening his New House for Children; whilst he was found at night like any Pagan of old worshipping one of the lions in Trafalgar Square, around whose mane he had hung a votive wreath of water-lilies, across whose unresponsive neck the Lord Mayor had wound his arms in supplication, imploring it that it might speak, and give a sign like the Oracle in Delphi.
Was the Lord Mayor of London the last of the great Pagans? asked the writer, or had he merely gone back a few thousand years in imagination, owing to the insidious suggestions of another Heathen Deity who had doubtless presided over the Wine-press with an unstinted hand earlier in the day during the banquet at the Guildhall? The writer dared to express a hope that it was merely a form of Civic debauchery emanating from the oft-replenished toasts of the Devil's cup, rather than a classical intoxication which if persisted in might plunge the whole of London once more into the perverted darkness of Pagan ages.
The Lord Mayor seized his hat and called for his carriage, and arrived at the Writer's chambers overlooking Trafalgar Square, purple in the face.
"Yes, I've read it, Dad," remarked the Writer as he observed Sir Simon's signs of almost apoplectic agitation. "It's very bad form, and what is worse it's very badly written."
"The pen is mightier than the sword," shouted Sir Simon, "and unfortunately the sword is out of date nowadays, or I would challenge him upon the spot; but, my boy, you have the pen, and you can use it, and a jolly sight better than the silly ass who wrote that article. Will you answer him for me?"
The Writer smiled and shook his head.
"No, Dad, that is exactly what he wants; he would get all the advertisement out of such a controversy that his soul craves for, and which is absolutely necessary for him now to keep up his reputation. I have something to suggest much better than that."
"What is it?" asked the Lord Mayor helplessly.
"Did you ever consider some of the characteristics of Ulysses, Dad?"
"Oh, they talked about him in my school-days, but I didn't have much schooling, you know; and what on earth has Ulysses to do with this?"
The Writer grinned. "Because, Dad, he possessed a remarkably wily gift of always finding his enemies' one vulnerable spot."
"Well?"
"I know at least two of Learnéd Bore's most vulnerable spots."
"Eh? Unbounded conceit and unlimited calumny?" questioned Sir Simon.
"No," rejoined the Writer, "I should say he wasinvulnerableupon those two points. However, two things he dreads more than anything else. He has a horror of ridicule when it is turned upon himself, and an unutterable and most unnatural hatred of all children."
"Well, I don't see how that helps me," rejoined the Lord Mayor.
The Writer looked at Sir Simon significantly, and spoke slowly and deliberately so that his words might have their full effect.
"Lose no time in bringing an action against him for libel; as a defendant he will be off his pedestal,—and at a disadvantage."
The Lord Mayor opened his eyes and whistled softly. "I never thought of that," he confessed; "and where does his horror of children come in?"
"The chief witness for your side will be little Ridgwell," suggested the Writer quietly; "it will be something that Learnéd Bore doesn't understand, has never encountered, and will not know how to deal with, and of the two I know whose story will be believed, however fantastic it sounds. The child will be the one who will score, they always do in Court, and I think that Learnéd Bore will live to gnash such teeth as he hasn't had pulled, and employ the venom of his remaining fangs upon some one else."
Sir Simon lay back in his chair and laughed heartily, and all his old good-humour seemed to be restored to him.
"'Pon my word," he declared, "it is a capital idea of yours. How shallI commence the action?"
"I'll find the man for you and get Vellum and Crackles, the solicitors, to instruct him at once on the case. His name is Mr. Gentle Gammon, K.C., a famous barrister. He was at school with me, and afterwards at Oxford. Why, Dad, you must remember him, he returned home once with me and spent the Christmas holidays with us at Lancaster Gate. Mum thought an awful lot of him."
"I remember!" exclaimed Sir Simon excitedly; "meek manner, gentle voice, but the young devil always got his own way, I noticed, before any one even knew what he was after."
"He gets his own way rather more now than he did then, if possible, and by the same means. He always wins his cases too."
"Engage him," commanded Sir Simon, "engage him at once, my boy; and are you going to undertake to coach little Ridgwell?"
"Little Ridgwell won't want any coaching," chuckled the Writer. "I only want little Ridgwell to appear in Court and talk to them about the Pleasant-Faced Lion as he talks to me, and I think it will be a refreshing and unusual experience for them all; and I firmly believe for the first time in his life Mr. Learnéd Bore will not be able to find anything to say."
"It's very odd," remarked Sir Simon as he rose to take his departure, "really very odd that you should have mentioned that chap just now—what's his name—Ulysses; as far as I remember he was a very cunning person, uncannily cunning, and I'm afraid really quite underhand, so to speak, and sometimes deceitful in his methods; and do you know, my boy, you rather remind me of him, now I come to think of the matter."
The Writer grinned affably.
"And whilst we are upon this subject," pursued Sir Simon, "I should really like to know what explanation you gave to the policeman that night, that he considered so convincing and satisfactory."
"Even Ulysses didn't reveal all his wisdom, Dad. Good-bye."
Now it so happened that the Writer chanced to be quite as fond of jokes as the Pleasant-Faced Lion, and the Writer contended, taking all the circumstances into consideration, that an action for libel with the Pleasant-Faced Lion involved in it would be an excellent great big joke, to say nothing of a graceful retaliation upon the Pleasant-Faced Lion himself for a few of the jokes which that Pleasant Animal had played upon the Writer. Not to mention the fact that such a case promised to supply the Writer with a little light recreation almost in the nature of a holiday, after the labours of producing his last book.
Consequently, as soon as Sir Simon had left, the Writer selected his favourite pipe, filled it with his choicest tobacco, and having lit it, stretched himself at ease upon the most comfortable divan in his rooms, and thought out subtle schemes.
There he lay laughing and chuckling for all the world like a wicked Puck, bent upon mischief, joyfully and solely devised for a confusion of his enemies, particularly Mr. Learnéd Bore.
Cheered and emboldened by such happy reflections, the Writer hit upon a scheme haphazard which for sheer unscrupulous impudence would baffle all description; gradually embroidering his machinations with that whimsicality that had always served him so well as an author, until his plans appeared to be complete.
"Very fortunate," murmured the Writer as he knocked out his pipe, "that those kids told me all about the Pleasant-Faced Lion's party. Great heavens, what a chance! and it will be worth a fifty-pound note to have Lal brought into Court and to hear the Griffin's song sang in Court, and sung it shall be, only I must alter the words to fit the occasion." Here the Writer sat upon the edge of the table and rocked with delighted laughter.
"Ha! ha! ha!" gurgled the Writer, "only one man in London who can set it, and, by Jove, I'll ring him up on the 'phone at once; a few judicious rehearsals—before Vellum and Crackles, the solicitors, are communicated with—to say nothing of Gentle Gammon, and—ha! ha! ha!—what a glorious joke. What's Billy Cracker's number in the book?"
A quarter of an hour afterwards, in answer to a most urgent summons by telephone, Mr. William Cracker made his appearance in the Writer's rooms.
Mr. William Cracker, called Billy by his friends, was rapidly rising to fame as a writer of musical comedy—a tall, sleek personage, with straw-coloured hair brilliantined very flat over his head, and carefully parted in the centre, wearing a monocle in one eye, which appeared to grow there, and was always lavishly adorned as an exact and living replica of the latest fashion plate.
Billy greeted the Writer and stared at him through his eyeglass quizzically.
"Whenever I hear you give that Mephistophelean chuckle at the end of the 'phone," commented Billy, "I always know you have got some particularly impish scheme on. Well, what is it?"
"Oh, Billy, Billy," chuckled the Writer, "I have indeed got a scheme, and it is funnier, Billy, than any of your musical comedies."
"In that case," announced Billy, as he leisurely helped himself to a smoke which the Writer offered, "I shall steal the plot."
"Listen, Billy. Could you write a tune, a refrain, an air, whatever you call it, so catchy that people would hum it and sing it on the spot? I want a perfectly irresistible tune, Billy."
"All my tunes are irresistible," confessed Billy modestly.
"Yes, but I want an absolute dead cert. The sort of thing you used to write at Oxford before you took up music as a profession; you know, one of those catchy things we all used to stand round and sing the instant you played it."
"Of course," returned Billy equably, "it's my profession. I turn out any amount of such things."
"Oh, yes; but, Billy, this has got to be a Comic Classic."
Billy considered for a space.
"Is it to be sung in a Comic Opera?" he asked.
"No, it's going to be sung in Court."
Billy stared through his eyeglass.
"You're joking!" he said.
"Of course I'm joking," retorted the Writer, "you only have to read the words to gather that fact."
"Have you got the words?"
"Yes, here they are; but wait a minute, old chap, that isn't all, you have got to coach a youngster I know to sing them."
"Oh, that's a very different matter," demurred Billy; "I don't teach, and anyway it would be awful waste of time."
"I will pay you your own fee," grinned the Writer, as he fingered a cheque-book, artlessly placed upon the top of a desk. "Nice fat cheque, Billy, always useful."
Mr. Billy Cracker appeared instantly to succumb to this suggestion and to take very kindly to it.
"Here are the words," said the Writer modestly, handing two half-sheets of notepaper to his friend, "there is the grand piano, Billy, opened already, a medium of expression only waiting for your musical genius."
"Let's see the words," said Billy.
Mr. Cracker perused the lines offered for his inspection with amazement.
"I say," he observed, "they seem awful rot."
The Writer laughed.
"Ah, Billy, that's only because you don't know the situation yet."
"True," assented Billy; "I've had worse given me to set in musical comedies. Now let me see," murmured Mr. Cracker as he seated himself at the pianoforte, "scansion is the great thing—scansion and rhythm."
Thereupon followed a curious procession of tum tiddle, tum tiddle, tum tiddle, tiddle tums, varied by little tinkling outbursts upon the pianoforte, which there could be no doubt that Mr. Billy Cracker played astonishingly well.
"Easy or difficult to set?" inquired the Writer.
"Oh, child's play!"
"That's just what I want it for," remarked the Writer encouragingly, "child's play, and the sort of tune a child would sing whilst he played."
"Half a mo," murmured Billy, "I'm getting it fine—lum, lum, lum, lum, lum, lum, lum, lum, lum. Ha! What do you think of this?"
Out rippled a delicious melody, harmonised with rich full chords this time.
"That's it!" shouted the Writer excitedly. "Oh! lovely!! Billy, you're a treasure. Oh! play it again!"
Mr. Billy Cracker obligingly consented.
The Writer was dancing round the room and singing at one and the same time.
"Ripping! Billy, Ripping! Write it down at once!"
"Suppose you haven't got any music-paper in the place? No, I thought not; never mind, I can soon manufacture some from this manuscript-paper."
"No, not that," exclaimed the Writer hastily, "that's my new poem."
"Humph! Hope it's better than the one you have given me to set."
"Billy," exclaimed the Writer enthusiastically, "I am going to stand you a tip-top lunch, and then I'm going to take you to Balham."
"Balham, good gracious! what on earth for?"
"You've got to give a music lesson in Balham after lunch, Billy, one lesson will be enough with that tune. Why, it's in my head now, I can't forget the thing."
"Isn't that exactly what you required?" asked Billy languidly, as he wrote down notes.
* * * * *
Messrs. Vellum and Crackles, most concise and conservative of solicitors, found themselves suffering for the first time in the history of the firm from a fit of astonishment, not to mention dismay, regarding the strange nature and unusual features of a case concerning which their firm had recently received instructions.
The case was considered so unusual that a sort of hastily contrived board meeting was deemed expedient, and was accordingly held in Mr. Vellum's private room.
At the end of the meeting, Mr. Vellum gave instructions for the writing of a letter to the Board of Works, for special permission to have one of the Lions, which would be, hereinafter, especially pointed out and specified, removed from Trafalgar Square to the Law Courts, as its presence in Court was deemed indispensable in a case of a peculiar and special nature.
"It is a very singular application," remarked Mr. Crackles thoughtfully.
"I hope the request will not bring ridicule upon the firm," rejoinedMr. Vellum.
There was a curious hush of expectancy one early autumn afternoon inCourt X., about to be presided over by Mr. Justice Chatty.
Outside in the streets London was suffering from partial darkness, which is not infrequently the case, so a number of the lights in Court had been lit, and although they burned a somewhat dull amber, the lighting was sufficient to outline a truly remarkable scene.
Mr. Justice Chatty, the Judge, had not yet entered and taken his seat, so that the expectant hush which had momentarily crept over the Court was all the more remarkable by way of contrast to the series of rushes which had gone before this state of calm.
Something approaching a small riot had taken place before the doors of the Court had been opened. Crowds of curiosity-loving people, having stationed themselves outside for hours, and who had even thoughtfully provided themselves with sandwiches, now fought and kicked and struggled in solid wedges to find a place, and even roundly abused the police who controlled the doors when they were thrust away. The public have an unfortunate habit of becoming abusive whenever "House Full" is announced, after bravely enduring the probationary martyrdom of waiting hours for one of their favoured entertainments to start.
The belief that the Judge was about to take his seat was found to be a false alarm, so the hum and hubbub inside the Court recommenced with renewed activity. The solicitors chattered at their table like magpies. The leading barristers turned over their briefs and snapped out replies to the other barristers with them, and fidgeted with their gowns. Everybody glared at everybody else in the amber-lighted Court, but however eagerly they talked, and wherever they looked, the eyes of every one in Court always returned to stare in amazement and wondering curiosity upon one object. In the body of the Court, looming out of the dimness, the head fully illuminated, was the enormous statue of a bronze lion upon its stone pedestal.
"Most extraordinary case in my recollection," drawled a junior barrister to one of his fellows who was flattened beside him; "no wonder there is no room in Court with that ridiculous thing stuck there!"
"Who's for the defendant?"
"Dreadful, K.C., instructed by Brockett and Bracket."
"Umph! then I suppose there will be explosions and fireworks in Court: it's usually so when Dreadful starts."
"Gentle Gammon, I see, for the plaintiff. Biggest spoofer on the LawList, clever though."
Even after the Court appeared to be packed with that overlapping economy which is a characteristic repose of preserved sardines, small bodies of juniors, some with wigs, some without wigs, some in whole gowns, some with their gowns in shreds, forced their way in from other doors and other Courts. Some conspicuously held briefs borrowed for the occasion, some did not even pretend to have any such thing.
The stalwart policeman who guarded this second door suddenly became firm, and closed it with a mighty effort; that is to say, he all but closed it, only was prevented by the foot and head of the last junior hurrying in, who howled his agony aloud at having fallen into such a trap.
"No, no, Mr. Towers," expostulated the tall constable, "can't you see the Court is full and won't hold another one?"
"Lucas, let me in at once."
"I can't, sir, more than my position is worth."
"Then let me out," howled the suffering junior, "you're crushing my foot and my neck."
The stalwart policeman lessened a fraction of his weight against the door, and the imprisoned junior was allowed to scrape himself out as gradually as his peculiar position would admit.
The one person who considered the presence of the Lion in Court to be the most natural thing in the world was Ridgwell, who, standing beside the Writer, peeped through the little glass panel let into the door leading from a passage to one of the witnesses waiting-rooms.
"Is the Round Game going to commence?" Ridgwell asked the Writer innocently.
The Writer admitted gravely that the Round Game was going to commence with a vengeance.
"The ones who lose have to pay the forfeits, haven't they?" persistedRidgwell.
"Yes," agreed the Writer. "Exactly—ahem!—heavy forfeits."
"I hope Sir Simon wins then," observed Ridgwell.
"You see that man across there, Ridgwell," remarked the Writer, "big fierce-looking man making ineffectual efforts to adjust his wig becomingly over a pair of very big red ears, with two very big red hands?"
"Yes," agreed Ridgwell.
"With the sort of expression upon his face that the first of the Three Bears must have worn when he entered Silverlocks' kitchen and found the bread-and-milk to be missing?"
"Yes," laughed Ridgwell, "I remember, 'Who stole my bread-and-milk?'"
"Well, that is the man who is going to try to make you and I and SirSimon pay the forfeits."
"How?" inquired Ridgwell.
"Well," suggested the Writer, "you know he will roar and shout and bang the table with those red hands of his, and try to frighten everybody, but the one thing to do is not to take the slightest notice of him. If he annoys you, just smile; if he continues to annoy you, just glance towards the Judge."
At this moment the voices of the ushers were heard shouting for silence and order, and a profound stillness reigned inside the Court, for his Lordship the Judge had entered through the doors leading to his room and had taken his seat.
His scarlet robe only seemed to accentuate the colour of his puffy pink cheeks, whilst the blackness of his little beady eyes and pointed nose rather gave him the appearance of some overfed bird gorged to repletion after a particularly satisfying meal, slightly apoplectic, with its beak out of focus. The Judge, moreover, appeared to be afflicted with a little wheezy asthmatical cough which attacked him at intervals as he prepared to arrange his papers. The Clerk carefully placed a glass of water upon the desk by his Lordship's side, but whether this was done by way of a simple remedy for the Judge's wheezy little cough, or merely as a gentle reminder that the case was likely to be a dry one, cannot be guessed with any certainty. The preliminaries having been arranged, the case having been called, the Ushers of the Court having again shouted unnecessarily for silence, Sir Simon Gold having stared at the Judge, and Mr. Learnéd Bore having stared at everybody, the Judge having appeared to have closed his beady eyes in slumber, like a broody hen upon a perch, Mr. Gentle Gammon rose and opened his case for the plaintiff.
As Ridgwell observed in a whisper, "the Round Game had started." Mr. Gentle Gammon opened his case in his proverbially gentle tones. It was a silky voice, purring in its gentleness, but with a curious power of penetrating every corner of the over-crowded Court; it insisted even whilst it soothed, and its effect upon his Lordship the Judge seemed to be most pleasing, as he immediately appeared to nod to it as if in greeting. Mr. Gentle Gammon related to the Court how his client, holding the highest Civic position in London, had been made the subject of a virulent and unscrupulous newspaper attack by a man who, in addition to writing plays which nobody professed to understand, undoubtedly wrote articles that all fair-minded people unquestionably deplored. This unprincipled person, Mr. Learnéd Bore by name, had seen fit to attack no less a person than the Worshipful the Lord Mayor of London, and that, moreover, during his Lordship's tenure of office, believing that he, an unscrupulous journalist, could drag the Lord Mayor down from his exalted position by means of a few clap-trap phrases written for money, although he, the learned Counsel, marvelled how any one could find it in their hearts to remunerate such a person engaged in such a calling using such questionable language in such a preposterous case.
He, the Most Worshipful the Lord Mayor, the observed of all observers in the City as elsewhere, or in any assemblage he adorned with his presence and ornamented with his personality, had been accused in an offensive phrase of "imbibing too freely of the Devil's cup," the Devil's cup in this instance signifying wine, the insidious inference being that the Most Worshipful the Mayor was inebriated, and, moreover, in public, and in Trafalgar Square of all places in London. The Counsel paused dramatically, then a thrill of unutterable horror crept into the hitherto purring voice of Mr. Gentle Gammon.
"That, my Lord and Gentlemen of the Jury, is a foul calumny, an insidious lie, uttered to drag down the exalted of the earth, and bespatter the resplendent robes of Civic dignity with the spiteful mud besprinkled from the nethermost garbaged recesses of the journalistic gutter.
"During the still and beautiful night hours, when this travesty of an accusation is brought, my client, the Most Worshipful, had wandered into the holy star-lit night, clad in the flowing robes symbolical of his exalted earthly estate, to place a wreath, a beautiful wreath, upon one of the monuments of London he deemed the most dignified and fitting to receive it. That monument, if they but lifted their eyes, they would see in Court. A stately noble Lion, whose presence there had necessitated the removal of four separate sets of folding doors leading to the Court in order that it might be present. Could this noble beast but speak," urged Mr. Gentle Gammon, K.C., "could it even roar, it would speak its severest censures, would roar its loudest denunciations at the libellous statement that the noble Civic head of London who honoured it, could possibly have done so, could conceivably have climbed to such a height upon its back, unless he had been eminently sober, unfalteringly steady at the time when, clad in his robes in the calm violet depth of night, he had placed his offering in happy felicitation as a symbol and a greeting to his beloved City of London. This should have excited only admiration; but seen through the prying eyes of a prurient pressman, this touching tribute had been changed by the vile alchemy of suspicion to an unseemly and ridiculous action of midnight debauchery which could only have turned the noble Lion to stone, had it not already been made of bronze.
"My Lord and Gentlemen of the Jury, this Lion stands for liberty, as do all British Lions. I claim the liberty and full right of my client, if he deems fit, to be able to decorate any statue of London whenever he pleases, at any or every possible hour of the night that he chooses, without the stupid and interfering intervention of a constable, or the slanderous pen of a Mr. Learnéd Bore, having the power to make a lovable and harmless action wear the appearance of a midnight frolic of bibulous recklessness, which, had it taken place, would have been only food and gossip for the senseless and shameful, and reflective regret for the wise.
"My Lord and Gentlemen of the Jury, my client does not wish for big damages, but he does demand strict justice. That is what he is here for, my Lord and Gentlemen of the Jury, that is what we are all here for. If I were given to emotion, which I am glad to confess I am not, my deepest and innermost emotions would be called forth by the picture of his Lordship there before us, who holds the scales of Justice in his hands, who can pierce the outer coverings of dissembling and falsehood with the eagle eye of truth, who can right this hideous wrong, who can smooth out the crooked paths of falsehood, making all plain. Let the false traducer beware, I say, he is veritably between the Lion and the Eagle. His Lordship in this case is the Eagle (metaphorically, of course)," hastily added Counsel, upon noticing the extraordinary likeness of his Lordship to a bird roosting, "and the Lion and the Eagle shall each of them turn and between them rend the truth and nothing but the truth from the lying carcase of calumny.
"Having now shown with impartiality, at the same time characterised with reserve, that the condition ascribed to the Right Worshipful the Lord Mayor was ridiculous, I will proceed to deal with the other statement in this misjudged journalistic attack, that the Right Worshipful was reviving Paganism in London, and in consequence attracting a crowd. Far from the Right Worshipful either attracting attention or causing a scene or obstruction in Trafalgar Square, I shall prove indisputably that it was the Lion, and the Lion alone, that caused the scene; the Lion also, who by a strange metamorphosis occasioned a crowd to collect. We know from classical history that in Babylon and Assyria bulls talked, we have heard of the oracle of Delphi, and in Biblical history of animals who talked. I shall prove by witnesses that this Lion has not only walked but talked as well."
Sensation in Court.
Here his Lordship the Judge appeared to show the first sign of interest he had evinced in the case.
"My learned friend must be careful," cautioned the Judge. "If what he states is true, the Lion may have to go into the witness-box."
Titters in Court. The Learned Judge smiles, rather pleased with his own remark.
Mr. Dreadful, K.C., at this point arose hastily; in fact, the learnedK.C. almost jumped.
"My Lord, I protest against such a line of argument, such a travesty being introduced to mar the seriousness of this case."
His Lordship waved the learned and excited gentleman aside.
"I am the Judge here," observed his Lordship, "and in that sense I even resemble Daniel with regard to his duties in a similar capacity, but I fear I do not possess his special knowledge with regard to Lions."
Titters again in Court, in which the Learned Judge joins.
"However, I am always anxious to learn."
Renewed titters.
Mr. Dreadful, K.C., seats himself hurriedly and grinds his teeth in vexation, but finds time to whisper rapidly to a junior, who leaves the Court hastily and mysteriously.
"Pray continue, Mr. Gammon."
"My Lord, I have little more to say."
"I am sorry for that," interposed the Judge; "you were beginning to interest me more than I should have believed possible."
Mr. Gentle Gammon bowed ever so slightly, as if the Learned Judge had crowned him with a compliment that he found too heavy for his head to support, and proceeded—
"But, my Lord and Gentlemen of the Jury, if I say little else with regard to this case before you, which is permeated throughout by the mythical mystery of a classical age, it is only that the witnesses I shall produce to prove this strange thing may speak instead of myself. Three witnesses in all, and one in particular. The one in particular, since only truth can issue from the lips of infancy, I shall call first. My Lord, I shall put a child, a little boy, into the witness box that you may hear his simple story."
Judge. "Dear me, I hope he won't be frightened of the Lion." (Titters in Court.)
Mr. Gammon, K.C."On the contrary, my Lord, you will find he regards it as an old friend; and, my Lord, when you have listened to what he has to say, I think we may all realise 'that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in—er—philosophy.'"
His Lordship(pleasantly). "I think I have heard that before."
Mr. Gammon(courteously). "Your Lordship is much too well read to have missed it." (Thereupon Mr. Gammon, K.C., sat down.)
Judge(with a little snigger). "The only thing I am likely to miss is how ourcelestialknowledge is going to be especially advanced this afternoon. However, the curious nature of the case as presented possesses unlimited possibilities."
Ridgwell, having been called, walked with the utmost composure into Court and took his place in the witness-box. He looked very tiny, but very self-possessed, and smiled pleasantly at the Judge.
The Judge smiled pleasantly back at Ridgwell.
Mr. Gammon rose to the occasion and to his feet at one and the same time. He permitted the pleasing impression that Ridgwell had unconsciously created to have its full effect upon the Court, and upon everybody present with the exception of Mr. Learnéd Bore, whose countenance alone wore the disgusted and horrified expression that might have been expected had a great green toad been introduced into the witness-box. Mr. Learnéd Bore's countenance afforded a strange study of nausea struggling against outraged dignity.
"Now, Ridgwell, do you see any one in Court that you know?"
"Yes. Lal."
"And will you tell us who Lal is?" purred Mr. Gammon.
"Yes, Lal is the Pleasant-Faced Lion. There he is," said Ridgwell.
"How do you know his name is Lal?" inquired Counsel winningly.
"He told me so himself, it is short for Lionel. Lionel is his proper name."
"And when did this Lion Lal first speak to you?"
"Some weeks ago. The night I got lost in the fog."
This was altogether too much for Mr. Dreadful, K.C.
"My Lord," shouted that gentleman, as he bounded to his feet, "my Lord, I take this opportunity of protesting that the witness is not the only one who complains of being lost in the fog. I myself, my Lud, am completely lost owing to the same cause."
"In that case," said the Judge, testily, "always keep quite still, and you will in time find out where you are."
Titters in Court.
"My Lord," roared Counsel for the defendant, "I protest!"
The Judge interposing. "My learned friend, there is only one thing present in this Court that has a right to roar, and it is noticeable what a good example he sets you by refraining from doing so." (Amusement in Court.) "Kindly sit down. The little boy is giving his evidence very well indeed."
"Am I to take this witness's evidence down, my Lord?" inquired theJudge's Clerk in a whisper.
"Certainly, certainly," replied the Judge. "If a Hans Christian Andersen comes into Court, or sends a deputy, the evidence must be taken down, the same as anybody else's."
"And now, Ridgwell," said Mr. Gentle Gammon, in his gentlest tones, "will you please tell us in your own way all that befell you when you became acquainted with the Pleasant-Faced Lion."
For a considerable time the Learned Judge folded his claw-like thumbs and listened, and the Court sat amazed and stupefied whilst Ridgwell told of all the adventures that had befallen him after his acquaintance with Lal.
First came the tournament, then his first ride home to Balham on theLion's back.
"Rather a long way, little man, eh?" suggested the Judge, affably. "He could never have been away so far from Trafalgar Square before. How did he find his way?"
"Oh, he followed the tram-lines," said Ridgwell.
Titters in Court.
"Good indeed, a most admirable witness this," observed his Lordship.
Then followed a simple but glowing description of the Pleasant-FacedLion's wonderful evening party.
"Dear me," again observed his Lordship, "you had Royalty present, too!"
"Yes," said Ridgwell. "King Richard, King Charles, Queen Boadicea; andOliver Cromwell came in and shouted 'Ho!' at King Richard and 'Ha, ha!'at King Charles. Then the Griffin ordered Oliver Cromwell out, andChristine thanked him."
"Very extraordinary and interesting," observed his Lordship; "and who is Christine?"
"She is my little sister."
"I have her deposition here, my Lord," broke in Counsel for plaintiff, "bearing out her brother's statements."
When Ridgwell came to a description of the Griffin, his sayings, doings, his woes and his character generally, the entire Court rocked with amusement which nobody made any effort to subdue.
"And now," said Counsel, who had watched everything up to this point with the cunning eye of a fox, "and now, little man, will you kindly sing as well as you can the song you say the Griffin sang at the party before the Lion?"
At this point Mr. Learnéd Bore, with his hands covering his ears, sank his head upon the solicitor's table at which he sat. If there was one thing Mr. Learnéd Bore hated more than children, it was music, in any shape or form, and when they both came together Mr. Learnéd Bore shared all the unpleasant feelings from which Mephistopheles was supposed to have suffered whenever he heard church bells. In a beautifully clear childish voice Ridgwell sang the merry song in the merriest way imaginable.
"Of a merry, merry King I will relate,Who owned much silver, gold and plate,"
commenced Ridgwell triumphantly, in a quite wonderful rendering of the Griffin's favourite ballad. The tune was haunting, the swing of the air irresistible. The entire Court became slowly infected with the seductive gaiety of the song. The Juniors began to move their feet, the solicitors began to wave their quill pens to it. The Usher of the Court nodded his head, and his Lordship the Judge was so carried away by the melody that he unconsciously beat time gently by wagging one finger, whilst he smiled around upon the Court; and so in a burst of pleasing song Ridgwell continued—
"Yet one thing the merry, merry King forgot,That it would be his Griffin's lotTo be very, very cold or very, very hot—"
"High up in Fleet Street," sang the entire Court.
"So slowly the faithful creature gotChilblains in Fleet Street."
"Chilblains in Fleet Street," yelled all the Juniors in chorus. On went Ridgwell without a breath—
"The Griffin grew prettier day by day,Directing the traffic along each way,With always a pleasant word to say,"
"High up in Fleet Street," burst from the Court, who knew the phrase quite as well as the refrain by this time, and could not have sung it better if they had practised it.
"One trouble alone caused him dismay,"
"Chilblains in Fleet Street," came the chorus, which drowned Ridgwell's last notes entirely.
Frantic applause in Court, which the Judge instantly suppressed.
"If," said his Lordship, forgetful of the fact that he himself had helped in the scene by beating time, "if I have any more of this disgraceful disturbance in Court I shall give orders for it to be instantly cleared."
"Thank you, that will do. You can step down now, Ridgwell," said Mr.Gentle Gammon.
"And very well sung," observed his Lordship, as Ridgwell departed.
The next witnesses were called, Cissie Laurie and John Bowling.
"Are you sure you have those names correctly?" asked the Judge.
"Yes, my Lord; why?"
The Judge(facetiously). "It has been an afternoon of ballads; we have just heard one very well sung, and it seems to me that the collection would not be complete withoutAnnieLaurie andTomBowling." (Much laughter in Court, in which the Learned Judge joins in a high-pitched alto.)
John Bowling admitted that he behaved most oddly, but he did so because the Lion seemed to be behaving strangely. Said he thought the Lion's eyes had gone green; believing that they were real emeralds, he had tried to cut them out with his knife.
Judge. "What! tried to gouge out the Pleasant-Faced Lion's eyes?" (Laughter in Court.)
The Sailor admitted it with contrition.
The Judge. "Such a gentle creature, too! Lal, the Children's friend." (Much laughter in Court.)
His Lordship. "Hadyoubeen to the party?" (Renewed laughter.)
Sailor. "No, my Lord, not his, another." (More laughter.)
Counsel here asked witness to relate what exactly happened upon the evening in question.
Sailor. "Well, yer see, governor, I can't say, 'cos I can't remember much about it; yer see, I was tuppence on the can, so to speak."
Judge(interrupting). "I don't understand that expression; is it a term used in the Navy? What does he mean by 'Tuppence on the can'?"
Sailor. "Well, in other words, I was blind, your Worship, I mean your Lordship." (Titters in Court.)
Counsel hastened to explain that Mr. Bowling wished to convey the unfortunate fact that he was intoxicated.
Sailor. "You've caught it, governor!"
Counsel was here heard to murmur words to the effect that he was thankful to say he had not caught it.
Witness(continuing unabashed). "Yer see, the reason as I was like I was, I 'ad snatched five dog's-noses right off."
Judge(plaintively to Counsel). "What does he mean by saying he snatched five dog's-noses? Why, was he possessed with a mania for mutilating animals?"
Counsel(explaining). "No, my Lord, the dog's-noses the witness refers to is a form of alcoholic stimulant—ahem!—gin, I believe, with some other ingredient, such as ale, mixed with it."
His Lordship. "Oh, very well."
Counsel. "Did the witness consider the Lord Mayor of London was sober?"
Sailor. "Do you mean that there old cove in the red gown?"
Judge(excitedly, and in needless alarm). "Of whom is he speaking?"
Counsel(hastening to explain). "The Lord Mayor, my Lord. I asked the witness did he consider the Lord Mayor sober upon the night they met."
Witness. "Yes, he was sober enough, but I think he was balmy, and I shall always think he was balmy."
Counsel. "Thank you, that is sufficient; you can stand down."
Cissie Laurie, upon being called, went skittishly into the witness box, curtseyed to the Court, and blew a kiss to the Judge.
His Lordship glared at the lady in shocked amazement.
Upon being questioned, Mrs. Laurie confided that most of her early life had been passed playing in Pantomimes, therefore she had always been fond of dancing. At the present time she kept a lodging-house for theatricals, and the only chance she had of indulging in her old and favourite pastime seemed to be to dance attendance upon these lodgers.
"Never mind what you do indoors," suggested Counsel. "I want to know what you do out of doors, what you did out of doors on the particular night in question when you met the Lord Mayor of London."
"Well, I felt young and girlish," confessed Cissie. "The first floor back and the second floor front had both gone out, and the house seemed dull with no lights and nobody in it."
"Never mind about the house or the lighting of it," interruptedCounsel. "You went out for a walk in the streets of London."
"When I got to Trafalgar Square," continued Cissie, "I felt skittish, thoughtless and jolly, and I could 'ave declared he laughed at me and then winked."
Judge(interrupting). "The witness tells her story very badly. Who laughed and winked at her? The Lord Mayor?"
Counsel(hastily). "No, no, my Lord, not the Lord Mayor; the Lion."
Judge. "Oh, well, why doesn't she say so?"
Then proceeded Cissie, heedless of all interruptions—
"I sees the wreath round his neck, and I at once thought of the Russian dancers——"
Judge. "Tut, tut, tut! what has the fact of the Lord Mayor of London having a wreath round his neck to do with the Russian ballet?"
Counsel(in despair). "Not the Lord Mayor, my Lord; the Lion."
Judge(testily). "Then will the witness please say the word Lion whenever she wishes to refer to the Lion?"
Cissy(imperturbably). "I don't want to refer to it no more, 'cos I collared the wreath, and 'olding it over my 'ead I danced round the Square, just like the posters of them Russian dancers."
His Lordship(irritably). "Which particular poster was she desirous of realising?"
Counsel. "My Lord, I think it must be the one of a slim and classic youth dancing the Bacchanal with a wreath uplifted over his head."
His Lordship(looking at Cissie's ample form completely filling the witness-box, murmurs), "No, I cannot see the picture at all."
Counsel. "Nor I, my Lord, believe me."
Then volunteered Cissie, "He gave me two sovereigns."
Judge. "What, the Lion? does he give money as well as parties?"
Counsel(desperately). "Not the Lion this time, my Lord, but the Lord Mayor. Did you consider that the Lord Mayor was sober when he gave you this money?"
Cissie. "Lor bless yer, yes, as sober as his Honour there the blessed Judge himself."
Judge(with complexion rapidly changing from pink to crimson). "Do not refer to me again in such a way. It is most improper."
Cissie(obligingly). "Very well, my dear."
Judge(very annoyed). "Do not address me as my dear, do not address me at all, direct your remarks to Counsel, please."
Cissie(tossing her head). "Wot o'! now we shan't be long."
Counsel(soothingly). "No, Mrs. Laurie, as you observe, we shall not be long now. Will you kindly tell me where you met the Lord Mayor, previous to your meeting with him in Trafalgar Square?"
Cissie. "Yes, I first met him in a Pantomime."
Counsel. "In a Pantomime; very good."
Cissie. "Yus, I was playing Principal Boy, dressed in a green velvet jacket, green ostrich plumes in my 'air, and a pink pair of silk tights. Oh, you should just 'ave seen the pink silk tights, bran new ones."
Counsel(hastily). "Thank you, that is sufficient; a detailed description of the costume you wore is immaterial to the case."
Cissie. "Oh, is it? then I don't see the object of my being dragged 'ere if I ain't to describe my costume."
Counsel. "That will do, thank you, Mrs. Laurie; stand down."
Cissie. "Dragging me all the way 'ere, when the lodgers ain't got their dinners yet; fish to fry for the first floor, and the second back wanting macaroni with their stew, because they're I'talians."
Counsel. "That's enough, Mrs. Laurie."
Cissie(still talking as she prepares to depart). "Oh, is it enough, Mister Grey-Wig? Well, I call it a darned sight too much." (Cissie here being persuaded out by an usher of the Court). "So the next time you wants me to leave my work in the middle of the day you can fish for me, same as the lodgers will 'ave to fish for their darned dinner this blessed——" (door of the Court closes upon Cissie, rendering further remarks inaudible).
Judge. "A most garrulous woman."
Here Mr. Dreadful, K.C., rose with an evil smile of triumph, that is to say, it was a cross between a legal smile and a snarl.
Mr. Dreadful, K.C.'s utterances rather suggested the muffled discharging of pom-poms. Whenever he opened his mouth it was succeeded by an explosion of words, then a whistle by way of taking breath, another explosion succeeded by more whistles. Mr. Dreadful announced that before placing his client in the witness-box, he would state that all his client, the defendant's, written words were true in substance and in fact.
"The Lord Mayor of London had wandered out into the night, so had his client, Mr. Learnéd Bore. This gentleman, a playwright, journalist and writer, had wandered forth in order, no doubt, to get inspiration. The source of any such inspiration as he might have derived from the calm night had been utterly destroyed by the ridiculous antics of the Lord Mayor of London; inspiration had vanished, giving place instantly to a righteous feeling of strong condemnation that so beautiful a thing should have been so ruthlessly crushed. Fancies had fled, driven from their abiding-place by stern facts. Those facts had been embodied in a glowing article, destined to be distributed through the medium of the daily paper which his client adorned by contributions from his pen."
"If the Lord Mayor of London objected to the ridicule which his client's able article had heaped upon him—it was entirely the fault of the Lord Mayor. Any sober person, such as his client, must have instinctively supposed the Lord Mayor to be inebriated, when he was actually discovered arrayed in his state robes, coaxing the statue of a Lion to speak to him. Any Christian person, after observing this high Civic official place a wreath about this effigy, would unquestionably have believed him to be a Pagan, and a very ignorant one at that. Finding it hopeless to either excuse or explain such conduct, the plaintiff in this action, which ought never to have been brought, that is if the plaintiff had been wise, had actually, with an impudent audacity unparalleled in any Court of Law, urged that this lifeless Lion not only talked, but made signs. I shall not cross-examine one single witness who has appeared up to the present in this case, they have sufficiently condemned themselves already."
"The last lady, with a wealth of unnecessary words and adjectives, had informed the Court that she was once in a Pantomime, and it is my firm impression that is exactly where all the other witnesses in this case ought to be, especially the child who had unblushingly told them a long fairy story, and had attempted to sing them a song. A Pantomime was the proper place for them all, a fitting setting, and especially suitable for the Lord Mayor himself, robes and all. There, amidst the medley of such an entertainment, the Lord Mayor could coax Lions to do tricks, the sailor could indulge in his hornpipes and quaff dog's-noses. The child could act fairy stories, and sing all by himself, whilst the vociferating lady, who owned to a weakness for dancing indecorous solos, would be able to delight her heart by performing the Russian Carnival——"
Judge(prompting). "Bacchanal."
"They would all be most suitable in a Pantomime, but not in a Court ofLaw."
"The one amazing thing which had horrified him inexpressibly during the case was the fact that his learned brother Counsel, Mr. Gentle Gammon, had so far forgotten his professional dignity as to declare that this Lion actually moved and spoke at times. He feared, and also he lamented, that his learned brother must be approaching his dotage. Yet in order to satisfy each and every one in Court, he, Mr. Dreadful, had sent an urgent and special messenger for a first-class veterinary surgeon, having the letters M.R.C.V.S. after his name, and also for one of the keepers belonging to the lions' house in the Zoological Gardens. Their evidence would now be taken."
Upon the appearance of the M.R.C.V.S. in the witness-box the LearnedJudge saw fit to interfere.
Judge. "Have you ever attended a lion professionally?"
M.R.C.V.S."Never, your Lordship."
Judge(sagaciously). "Then what do you know about them?"
M.R.C.V.S."I have attended other animals, your Lordship."
Judge. "Very likely, very likely, but a live ass is a different thing to a dead lion." (Laughter in Court.)
Counsel(for the Defendant). "Betterthan a dead lion, your Lordship." (More laughter.)
Judge. "Not in this case." (Loud laughter.) "The learned Counsel for the Defence need not waste the time of the Court in hearing the opinion of either Veterinary Surgeons or experts from the Zoo. What the Learned Counsel ought to do is to produce Pygmalion." (Titters in Court.)
Mr. Dreadful, K.C., rising to protest. "My Lud, Pygmalion is a mythical personage, and your Ludship knows he is of a necessity shrouded in silence."
His Lordship. "So is the Lion." (Laughter in Court.)
Mr. Dreadful(still exploding and still protesting). "My Lud, I do venture to suggest that this Lion should somehow be thoroughly examined."
His Lordship. "Well, it is in Court, better try for yourself. I only hope your efforts will be as successful as Little Ridgwell's and his sister Christine, to say nothing of the Lord Mayor of London."
Mr. Dreadful. "My Lud, I cannot treat with these people, it is like dealing with the worshippers of Baal."
His Lordship. "Well, I really cannot sanction digging a trench and lighting fires all round it here in my court, to make it speak." (Loud laughter.)
After the laughter had somewhat subsided a slight stir was occasioned in Court by the appearance in the witness-box of Mr. Learnéd Bore.
In reply to many questions from Mr. Dreadful, K.C., Mr. Learnéd Bore stated all the incidents in Trafalgar Square which he had witnessed, and which had given rise to the present action.
Cross-examined by Mr. Gentle Gammon—
"You are a famous playwright, Mr. Learnéd Bore," commenced Counsel.
"I am a playwright."
"Do you write to instruct or to amuse?"
"It is possible to combine both."
"Can you give me an example?"
"Yes, this afternoon's experience in Court."
"Wonderful as that may have been, Mr. Bore, I suggest you have not written it."
His Lordship(facetiously). "Give him a chance, he may." (Laughter in Court.)
"Of course," suggested Counsel, "you always enjoy reading your own articles in the papers."
"Oh dear no. I am only concerned with writing them."
"But I suggest you read them before you send them in."
"Never; the Editor saves me the trouble."
"Your articles have a ready acceptance, I take it."
"Always."
"The Editor is so desirous of obtaining your work, I suppose he is willing to pay a big price for it even before it is written."
"Yes, and before it is read."
"Indeed, so there must be a time when nobody knows what your articles are about, including yourself, as you never read them." Counsel continuing. "I presume you never contribute any articles during the time of the year known as the Silly Season?"
"On the contrary, my first effort in that direction has resulted in the bringing of the present action."
"You considered the Silly Season had started then, upon the night you met the Lord Mayor?"
"The Silly Season started then, has continued since, and appears to be at its height here this afternoon."
(Sweetly.) "Then you can congratulate yourself upon being thoroughly in the fashion. Now tell me, Mr. Bore, in your opinion, should we take the statues of London seriously?"
"No, in my opinion we should take them all down."
"All? Oh, surely not. Now, as an instance, let us go down the Strand."
His Lordship(interrupting). "No, no, no, I believe the correct quotation is, 'Let's all go down the Strand.'" (Loud laughter.)
Counsel. "I have never heard the quotation, my lord."
His Lordship(pleasantly). "What! I should have thought that everybody had heard that, the difficulty is not to hear it. I have even heard it set to music." (Loud laughter.)
"Now, Mr. Bore," continued Counsel, when order had once more been restored. "Has it never struck you that some of the statues of London might, for example, sometimes come to life?"
"Never. I cannot imagine anything less like life, than any of the statues of London."
"Surely the one in Court to-day is a good specimen?"
"If it is a specimen it ought to be in its proper place—in a case."
Counsel(gently). "It is in a case."