His face was very dark, and his hair
and beard were long and rough, showing that he had not been in gaol
lately. His eyes wandered about the court in a helpless and vacant
manner. Two boys about eight or nine years old entered the court,
and, with colonial presumption, sat in the jury box. There were no
other spectators, so I left them there to represent the public. They
stared at the prisoner, whispered to each other, and smiled. The
prisoner could not see anything to laugh at, and frowned at them.
Then the magistrate came in, rubbing one of his hands over the other,
glanced at the prisoner as he passed, and withered him with a look of
virtuous severity. He was our Black Wednesday magistrate, and was
death on criminals. When he had taken his seat on the bench, I
opened the court, and called the first and only case. It was not
often we had a man to sit on, and we sat heavily on this one. I put
on my sternest look, and said "John Smithers"--here the prisoner
instantly put one hand to his forehead and stood at "attention"--
"you are charged by the police with vagrancy, having no lawful
visible means of support. What have you to say to that charge?"
"I am a blacksmith looking for work," said the prisoner; "I ain't
done nothing, your worship, and I don't want nothing."
"But you should do something," replied the magistrate; "we don't want
idle vagabonds like you wandering about the country.
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