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The Story of Wild Will Enderby

Chapter XII. The Next Witness

page 185

Chapter XII. The Next Witness.

The Commissioner sat down to his breakfast in an angry mood. And, indeed, he had reason to be angry.

The elegant, but fragile marquee wherein he sat, served a three-fold purpose. By day it was alternately a dining-room and a court-house. At night it was the Commissioner's bedchamber. Now the chamber had not been converted into a breakfast-room so early as it should have been; and the hour for its second transformation into a court-house was fast approaching. And the Commissioner knew by sad experience, that unless he quickly dispatched his matutinal repast, he would not be permitted to do so in quietude. Suitors and applicants of all kinds were perversely indifferent about "office hours." Already, on that very morning, he had been chased by a small host of importunate miners, as, towel in hand, he hurried down the river-bank for his customary bath. It is quite true I suppose that Vice-Chancellor Shadwell heard arguments, and issued injunctions as he playfully gambolled in the Thames. But our Commissioner objected to such exciting performances, and rightly so.

Moreover, there was a hot wind blowing; and the fine dust had overlaid the butter, the bread, the bacon, the salt, the sugar, the plates, and the tablecloth with page 186a silicious coating, the sight of which was by no means exhilarating. I think the Commissioner did well to be angry.

Then again, he had the case of George Washington Pratt to dispose of. "Dispose of," did I say? A phrase is more easily written than an act is performed. The Commissioner was not at all easy in his mind. On reflection, he began to wish that he had allowed the accused to depart unmolested, on receiving the verdict of the Coroner's jury. Unless there was some fresh evidence, he would have to wade through the same story without any result. Then that beloved paper (I am not quite sure that 'beloved' was precisely the adjective employed,) had inserted a paragraph about it. "Bless the paper!" The Commissoner stopped midway in the demolition of his egg, to ejaculate a fervent wish that the head stoker had the paper and the editor, and everybody connected with it.

Then the Commissioner returned to his egg. Alas! the delicate white and yellow was already obscured by a film of grey dust. It was 'the last feather, &c.' Verily, the Commissioner did well to be angry.118

When a man is angry, he must expend his fury on something—animate or inanimate. In this case the angry man began with the egg, which he thrust indignantly from him; he continued with the chair, which he kicked backwards; he finally exploded on the Sergeant, who unluckily entered at the very culmination of the Commissioner's wrath.

"I beg your pardon, Sir,"—began the Sergeant.

"Of course you do. You are perpetually interrupting me at inconvenient seasons, and begging my par-page 187don. By Jove! I think you take a delight in it. What do you want now?"

"The prisoner Pellatt, Sir—."

"Bother the prisoner, Pellatt! Can't he wait till I have had my breakfast? I suppose he is aware that I am really a human being, and can't exist without eating."

"Oh! very well, Sir. It doesn't matter to myself at all. He only asked me to take a message to you; but I can wait till you're done, Sir."

"Well, I've done now. I wouldn't give a pin for my breakfast. The dust has poisoned everything. What is the message, Sergeant?"

[N.B.—As the Senior Partner would have said, the Commissioner had 'slowed down' by this time, and was 'going easy.']

"It's only that he'd like to see you before the case comes into Court, Sir."

"Well, there cannot be any objection to that. Yes, Sergeant; tell the prisoner that I will see him presently."

Thus it came to pass that the Senior Partner confided to the Commissioner so much of the story of Will Enderby as enabled that gentleman to place himself in communication with Mr. John Grey, of which, more hereafter.

At noon precisely (the ordinary police cases having been disposed of), George Washington Pratt—for the officials had at last arrived at the correct orthography of his name—was placed at the table, which did duty for a dock, and charged with having compassed the death of Harry Grey, otherwise William Enderby.

page 188

When he answered to his name, a murmur went through the crowd that thronged the Court-house. A murmur, not of indignation against, but of sympathy with the prisoner. There is a peculiar, and I must add, an amiable perversity existent amongst the multitude, which induces them to admire the brave, and to side with the weak, right or wrong. The Senior Partner bore himself firmly—he was a foreigner and without friends, and the polyglot populace befriended him on the spot.

"Call the first witness," said the Commissioner.

Whereupon the Sergeant read out the name of "Philip Trewartha."

Then the constable on duty at the door of the Courthouse lifted up his voice, and called, "Phelim O'Connor!"

And yet another took up the cry, and shouted for "William McArthur!"

It is not very surprising that the Cornishman thus unceremoniously transmuted into an Irishman, and then as instantaneously changed into a Scot, failed to comprehend that he was 'wanted.'

The Commissioner was impatient at the delay.

"The Court must not be kept waiting," he said. "Call the next witness!"

Befor the Sergeant could obey, there arose without the marquee a confusion of noises:—of a horse galloping furiously, of many dogs barking, of men running and shouting. Nearer, and yet more near approached the din. Spectators, witnesses, police, all hurried to the entrance. As they did so, a man with head uncovered and torn shirt-sleeves, dashed up on a troop-page 189horse, leaped from the panting animal, and thrusting aside the crowd with scant ceremony, confronted the Commissioner.

"He is innocent!"—he panted forth, hoarsely and with difficulty.—"He is innocent!—I did it—I—God have mercy on me!—I tell you he is innocent!"

He reeled to and fro like a drunken man. Simultaneously the Sergeant and the Senior Partner stepped forward; the one to seize, the other to support him. But before either could reach him, he staggered backwards, and fell to the ground exhausted and senseless.

It was the unauthorised appropriator of Constable Finnegan's horse,—the strange guest of old Willie at Lake Hawea;—it was Wild Will Enderby.

page 190

118 The last feather - Akin to the phrase the last straw that broke the camel’s back.