"
The little man ceased, his eyes shrank back into their sockets, his
figure back into its mask of shadowy brown and gleaming buttons, and Mr.
Bosengate was conscious that the judge was making a series of remarks;
and, very soon, of being seated at a mahogany table in the jury's
withdrawing room, hearing the voice of the man with hair like an
Irish terrier's saying: "Didn't he talk through his hat, that little
blighter!" Conscious, too, of the commercial traveller, still on his
left--always on his left!--mopping his brow, and muttering: "Phew! It's
hot in there to-day!" while an effluvium, as of an inside accustomed
to whisky came from him. Then the man with the underlip and the three
plastered wisps of hair said:
"Don't know why we withdrew, Mr. Foreman!"
Mr. Bosengate looked round to where, at the head of the table, Gentleman
Fox sat, in defensive gentility and the little white piping to his
waistcoat saying blandly:
"I shall be happy to take the sense of the jury."
There was a short silence, then the chemist murmured:
"I should say he must have what they call claustrophobia."
"Clauster fiddlesticks! The feller's a shirker, that's all.
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