"How did you manage it, my good friend--how did you manage? It was a
wonderful verdict--wonderful!"
"Oh," said he, "I was determined not to budge. I never budge.
Conscience is ever my guide."
"I suppose there were eleven to one against you?"
"Eleven to one! A tough job, sir--a tough job."
"Eleven for wilful murder, eh?" said the jubilant young man. "Dear me,
what a narrow squeak!"
"Eleven for _murder_! No, sir!" exclaimed the juror.
"What, then?"
"_Eleven for an acquittal_! You may depend upon it, sir, the other
jurors had been 'got at.'"
Lord Watson, dining with me one Grand Day at Gray's Inn, said he
recollected a very stupid and a very rude Scottish Judge (which seems
very remarkable) who scarcely ever listened to an advocate, and
pooh-poohed everything that was said.
One day a celebrated advocate was arguing before him, when, to express
his contempt of what he was saying, the cantankerous old curmudgeon of
a Judge pointed with one forefinger to one of his ears, and with the
other to the opposite one.
"You see this, Mr. ----?"
"I do, my lord," said the advocate.
"Well, it just goes in here and comes out there!" and his lordship
smiled with the hilarity of a Judge who thinks he has actually said a
good thing.
The advocate looked and smiled not _likewise_, but a good deal more
wise.
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