The Clerk of the Arraigns arose below the Bench and in a tone of intense boredom informed the six men in the dock that the good men whom they would hear called, and severally that did appear, were to pass between them and the King, upon the trial of their several lives or deaths: and that, if they meant to challenge them, or any of them, they must challenge them as they came to the Book to be sworn, and before they were sworn, and they should be heard. He then sat down again, closed his eyes and apparently went to sleep. Mr. Justice Parkin smoothed his hands and gazed at the public gallery, where a number of young women sat.
The panel was then called over. There was a challenge by the Crown to the name of an innkeeper of Southover, and then the Court settled once more into inertia while the jurymen were sworn. Afterwards the Clerk of the Arraigns, rousing himself from his sleep, charged the jury on the indictment against the prisoners and on the Coroner’s inquisition. Mr. Justice Parkin, sighing faintly at the necessity of removing his attention from his hands, ordered the witnesses out of Court. A police officer pulled at Andrews’s sleeve and led him into a small room marked on the door with a large label in bold vulgar lettering “Male Witnesses only.” In the middle of the room was a big, shiny red mahogany table, now covered by hats and coats and sticks. Round the four walls ran a narrow wooden seat tightly packed with people, who stared at him with hostile curiosity. They made no effort to move closer and find him room to sit. Andrews walked to the end of the room and leant against the window, watching his companions out of the corners of his eyes. One side of the room was entirely given up to men in the blue uniforms of the revenue. They commented on his appearance loudly amongst themselves till he found himself blushing scarlet.
“Who’s this young child?” said one.
“Can’t even dress decently to appear before his lord high mightiness.”
“Look at the mud on him. Street scavenger I’d say he is.”
An elderly man with a benevolent face called out to him. “What’s your name, young fellow?”
Andrews rose trustingly to the kindness in the voice. He felt very alone, standing in an isolated position, stared at and criticised by every man in the room. He longed to make an ally and so he answered promptly and truthfully, “Andrews.”
The elderly benevolent man turned sharply to his colleagues. “Andrews,” he said, “that’s one of the men we’ve been looking for these last days.” He got up and stood in front of Andrews with his hands on his hips. “You ought to be in the dock, you ought,” he said. “What are you doing here, eh, contaminating this company? Aye, you’ve cause to blush, you have. You are among honest men here.”
“Can’t you leave me alone?” Andrews said. “I’m tired. I haven’t had any sleep.”
“Nor you ought,” the man said. “What are you doing here, aye? Sneaked on your comrades, aye?” He turned to his companions and raised his hands protestingly. “I wouldn’t mind now if he was an honest smuggler,” he said. “But a sneak thief, a damned informer. It’s too thick. Are we going to let him stay in this room among honest men?”
“Hi, boy,” called a man from the opposite bench, “is that true? Be you a bloody informer?”
“O’ course he is,” the elderly revenue man continued, twisting round again to face Andrews. He danced from one foot to the other. “Can’t you answer an honest question—you rat?”
Andrews clenched his fists and half closed his eyes. “I’m not low enough to take an insult from a gauger,” he said.
“Not, aye?” the benevolent faced man asked and struck Andrews on the face with the palm of his hand.
Andrews raised his fist and then let it sink again to his side. O God, he silently implored, let this be my penance for last night. Now do your part and give me courage. Aloud he said. “You are an old man if you are a gauger. I’m not going to fight you,” and he turned his back on the room so that no one might see that his eyes were filled with tears. This is not the worst, he thought. How can I go through with this to the end?
“O let him alone, Bill,” someone said. “He’s only a kid.”
“He stinks,” said Bill abruptly. “Why should we be put in the same room as an informer? Either he clears out of here or else I clear out.”
“You’ll clear out anyway,” an officer said, putting his head through the door. “Your turn in Court. Get along now. Hurry.”
One by one they went, dropping out of Andrews’s sight like the sands of an hour glass. He waited nervously for his own name to be called, but still he remained free, free to stare through the window at a rain-lashed sodden yard, with the knowledge that he had not yet finally put the seal upon his treachery. At last the moment came. “Andrews, Andrews,” he heard his name called very faintly from the door of the Court, taken up louder and carried along the corridors, till it broke on him where he stood by the window cold and sick and frightened.
The Clerk of the Arraigns sat down and without a moment’s interval apparently subsided again into sleep. Sir Henry Merriman rose. “May it please your lordship, gentlemen of the jury …” His voice showed no sign of the past
