his seat before a folio of paper, a pink blotting-pad, and two clean
quill pens, with a resolve to maintain the cause of justice, whatever
might befall.

"Page eight, number twenty-one," shouted the black-robed usher, who
guided the jurors as a dog guides sheep, and wore the cheerful air of
congenial labour successfully performed. Turning up the reference in the
book of cases presented to each juror, Mr. Clarkson found: "Charles
Jones, 35, clerk; forging and uttering, knowing the same to be forged, a
receipt for money, to wit, a receipt for fees on a plaint note of the
Fulham County Court, with intent to defraud."

"This threatens to be a very abstruse case," he remarked to a red-faced
juror on his right.

"A half of bitter would elucidate it wonderful to my mind," was the
answer.

But already a policeman had been sworn, and given his evidence with the
decisiveness of a gramophone.

"Any questions?" said the foreman, looking round the table. No one
spoke.

"Signify, gentlemen, signify!" cried the genial usher, and all but Mr.
Clarkson held up a hand.

"Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve," counted the usher, totting up the
hands till he reached a majority. "True Bill, True Bill! Next case. Page
eleven, number fifty-two."