They shoot deserters at the front, and we let
this fellow off. I'd hang the cur."
Mr. Bosengate stared at that little wire-haired brute. "Haven't you any
feeling for others?" he wanted to say. "Can't you see that this poor
devil suffers tortures?" But the sheer impossibility of doing this
before ten other men brought a slight sweat out on his face and hands;
and in agitation he smote the table a blow with his fist. The effect was
instantaneous. Everybody looked at the wire-haired man, as if saying:
"Yes, you've gone a bit too far there!" The "little brute" stood it for
a moment, then muttered surlily:
"Well, commend 'im to mercy if you like; I don't care."
"That's right; they never pay any attention to it," said the grey-haired
man, winking heartily. And Mr. Bosengate filed back with the others into
court.
But when from the jury box his eyes fell once more on the hare-eyed
figure in the dock, he had his worst moment yet. Why should this poor
wretch suffer so--for no fault, no fault; while he, and these others,
and that snapping counsel, and the Caesar-like judge up there, went
off to their women and their homes, blithe as bees, and probably never
thought of him again? And suddenly he was conscious of the judge's
voice:
"You will go back to your regiment, and endeavour to serve your country
with better spirit.
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