I grew sick, sick.
"Yes, your honour," said the mate.
"Yes--ah!" said the devil's limb, chuckling--"we are getting on the
trail at last. Can you swear to more than one?"
"Yes, your honour."
"Yes!" again responded the sans wig. "How many?"
The man counted them off. "Fifteen, sir. That young fellow there is
the man who cut Captain Spurtel's throat, after violating his wife
before his eyes."
"God forgive me, is it possible?" gasped Thomas Cringle.
"There's a monster in human form for you, gentlemen," continued devil's
limb. "Go on, Mr Rumbletithump."
"That other man next him hung me up by the heels, and seared me on the
bare"--Here honest job had just time to divert the current of his speech
into a loud "whew."
"Seared you on the whew!" quoth the facetious lawyer, determined to have
his jest, even in the face of forty--three of his fellow creatures
trembling on the brink of eternity. "Explain, sir, tell the court where
you were seared, and how you were seared, and all about your being
seared."
Job twisted and lolloped about, as if he was looking out for some
opening to bolt through; but all egress was shut up.
"Why, please your honour," the eloquent blood mantling in his honest
sunburnt cheeks; while from my heart I pitied the poor fellow, for he
was absolutely broiling in his bashfulness--"He seared me onon--why,
please your honour, he seared me on--with a redhot iron!"
"Why, I guessed as much, if he seared you at all; but where did he sear
you? Come now," coaxingly, "tell the court where and how he applied the
actual cautery.
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