He asked for a conviction. Mr. Bosengate felt a sympathetic shuffle
passing through all feet; the judge was speaking:
"Prisoner, you can either go into the witness box and make your
statement on oath, in which case you may be cross-examined on it; or you
can make your statement there from the dock, in which case you will not
be cross-examined. Which do you elect to do?"
"From here, my lord."
Seeing him now full face, and, as it might be, come to life in the
effort to convey his feelings, Mr. Bosengate had suddenly a quite
different impression of the fellow. It was as if his khaki had fallen
off, and he had stepped out of his own shadow, a live and quivering
creature. His pinched clean-shaven face seemed to have an irregular,
wilder, hairier look, his large nervous brown eyes darkened and glowed;
he jerked his shoulders, his arms, his whole body, like a man suddenly
freed from cramp or a suit of armour.
He spoke, too, in a quick, crisp, rather high voice, pinching his
consonants a little, sharpening his vowels, like a true Welshman.
"My lord and misters the jury," he said: "I was a hairdresser when the
call came on me to join the army. I had a little home and a wife.
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