“Mr. Swiveller,” says this gentleman to Dick, when he has told his tale with evident reluctance and a desire to make the best of it: “pray sir, where did you dine yesterday?”—“Where did I dine yesterday?”—“Aye sir, where did you dine yesterday—was it near here sir?”—“Oh to be sure—yes—just over the way.”—“To be sure. Yes. Just over the way”—repeats Mr. Brass’s gentleman, with a glance at the court—“Alone sir?”—“I beg your pardon,” says Mr. Swiveller, who has not caught the question—“Alone sir?” repeats Mr. Brass’s gentleman in a voice of thunder, “did you dine alone? Did you treat anybody sir? Come.”—“Oh yes to be sure—yes, I did,” says Mr. Swiveller with a smile. “Have the goodness to banish a levity, sir, which is very ill-suited to the place in which you stand (though perhaps you have reason to be thankful that it’s only that place),” says Mr. Brass’s gentleman, with a nod of the head insinuating that the dock is Mr. Swiveller’s legitimate sphere of action; “and attend to me. You were waiting about here yesterday in expectation that this trial was coming on. You dined over the way. You treated somebody. Now, was that somebody brother to the prisoner at the bar?”—Mr. Swiveller is proceeding to explain—“Yes or No sir,” cries Mr. Brass’s gentleman—“But will you allow me—”—“Yes or No sir”—“Yes it was, but—”—“Yes it was,” cries the gentleman, taking him up short—“And a very pretty witness you are!”
Down sits Mr. Brass’s gentleman. Kit’s gentleman, not knowing how the matter really stands, is afraid to pursue the subject. Richard Swiveller retires abashed. Judge, jury, and spectators, have visions of his lounging about with an ill-looking, large-whiskered, dissolute young fellow of six feet high. The reality is, little Jacob, with the calves of his legs exposed to the open air, and himself tied up in a shawl. Nobody knows the truth, everybody believes a falsehood—and all because of the ingenuity of Mr. Brass’s gentleman!
Then come the witnesses to character, and here Mr. Brass’s gentleman shines again. It turns out that Mr. Garland has had no character with Kit, no recommendation of him but from his own mother, and that he was suddenly dismissed by his former master for unknown reasons. “Really Mr. Garland” says Mr. Brass’s gentleman, “for a person who has arrived at your time of life, you are, to say the least of it, singularly indiscreet, I think.” The Jury think so too, and find Kit guilty. He is taken off, humbly protesting his innocence. The spectators settle themselves in their places with renewed attention, for there are several female witnesses to be examined in the next case, and it has been rumoured that Mr. Brass’s gentleman will make great fun in cross-examining them for the prisoner.
Kit’s mother, poor woman, is waiting at the grate below stairs, accompanied by Barbara’s mother (who, honest soul! never does anything but cry, and hold the baby), and a sad interview ensues. The newspaper-reading turnkey has told them all. He don’t think it will be transportation for life, because there’s time to prove the good character yet, and that is sure to serve him. He wonders what he did it for. “He never did it!” cries Kit’s mother. “Well,” says the turnkey, “I won’t contradict you. It’s all one now, whether he did or not.”
Kit’s mother can reach his hand through the bars, and clasps it—God, and those to whom he has given such tenderness, only know in how much agony. Kit bids her keep a good heart, and under pretence of having the children lifted up to kiss him, prays Barbara’s mother in a whisper to take her home.
“Some friend will rise up for us, mother,” cries Kit, “I am sure. If not now, before long. My innocence will come out, mother, and I shall be brought back again; I feel a confidence in that. You must teach little Jacob and the baby how all this was, for if they thought I had ever been dishonest, when they grew old enough to understand, it would break my heart to know it, if I was thousands of miles away.—Oh! is there no good gentleman here, who will take care of her!”
The hand slips out of his, for the poor creature sinks down upon the earth, insensible. Richard Swiveller comes hastily up, elbows the bystanders out of the way, takes her (after some trouble) in one arm after the manner of theatrical ravishers, and nodding to Kit, and commanding Barbara’s mother to follow, for he has a coach waiting, bears her swiftly off.
Well; Richard took her home. And what astonishing absurdities in the way of quotation from song and poem, he perpetrated on the road, no man knows. He took her home, and stayed till she was recovered; and having no money to pay the coach, went back in state to Bevis Marks, bidding the driver (for it was Saturday night) wait at the door while he went in for “change.”
“Mr. Richard sir,” said Brass cheerfully, “Good evening.”
Monstrous as Kit’s tale had appeared at first, Mr. Richard did, that night, half suspect his affable employer of some deep villainy. Perhaps it was but the misery he had just witnessed which gave his careless nature this impulse; but be that as it may, it was very strong upon him, and he said in as few words as possible, what he wanted.
“Money!” cried Brass, taking out his purse. “Ha ha! To be sure Mr. Richard, to be sure sir. All men must live. You haven’t change for a five pound note, have you sir?”
“No,” returned Dick, shortly.
“Oh!” said Brass, “here’s the very sum. That saves trouble. You’re very welcome I’m sure.—Mr. Richard sir—”
Dick, who had by this time reached the door, turned round.
“You needn’t,” said Brass, “trouble yourself to come back any more sir.”
“Eh?”
“You see, Mr. Richard,” said Brass, thrusting his hands in his pockets and rocking himself to
