"Comissiones, comissiones!" for instance, was murmured by a weather
beaten Spaniard, with a fine bald head, from which two small tufts of
grey hair stood out above his ears, and with a superb Moorish face
"Comissiones es decir patentes--Si hay comissiones, el Diablo, mismo,
les ha hecho!"
The court was apparently nonplussed--not so the wigless man of law. His
pea green visage assumed a more ghastly hue, and the expression of his
eyes became absolutely blasting. He looked altogether like a cat sure
of her mouse, but willing to let it play in fancied joy of escaping, as
he said softly to the Jew crier, who was perched in a high chair above
the heads of the people, like an ugly corbie in its dirty nest--"Crier,
call Job Rumbletithump, mate of the Porpoise."
"Job Rumbletithump, come into court!"
"Here," quoth Job, as a stout, bluff honest--looking sailor rolled into
the witnessbox.
"Now, clerk of the crown, please to swear in the mate of the Porpoise."
It was done. "Now, my man, you were taken going through the Caicos
Passage in the Porpoise by pirates, in August last--were you not?"
"Yes, sir."
"Turn your face to the jury, and speak up, sir. Do you see any of the
honest men who made free with you in that dock, sir? Look at them,
sir."
"The mate walked up to the dock, stopped, and fixed his eyes intently on
the young Spaniard. I stared breathlessly at him also. He grows pale as
death--his lip quivers--the large drops of sweat once more burst from
his brow.
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