class="speaker">Blower. Hey! Poor orphan! without a friend in the world! Can we turn our backs upon him? No. Let us be merciful. Let us indorse his patent medicine, and carry from this room a verdict of Not guilty. Then shall the tears of the orphan be squelched in gratitude, and the blessings of future generations of Popguns follow us.

O’Rourke. Begorra, that’s a teching appeal.

Precise. Now, Mr. O’Rourke, your turn.

O’Rourke (rising). I ax yer pardon, judge, Mr. Foreman, and gintlemen all. Wid the blood of forty ginerations of O’Rourkes a seethin’ with patriotic emotion in me bosom, d’ye mind; with faylings of gratitude for the fray gifts of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, guaranteed by this moighty republic, which, as I look back into the future, is iver prisint in all its glory, d’ye mind. Could I be so base as to dash myself foreninst those illigant laws that crush the wake and guard the strong? By the grane sod of ould Ireland, niver! If that thaif of the wurld, Popgun, has transgressed the law, let him swing. And what for would he be mixing saltpatre and——and——and brimstone, and——and charcoal, if not to blow up somebody. Medicine, is it? It’s my opinion that we’d better bring in a verdict of Guilty, and hang him, wid a recommendation to mercy, provided forty doses of his Medical Dead Shot bring him to life afther he’s been dead and buried siven days. Thim’s my verdict, judge. (Sits.)

Jolly. That’s a reviving verdict.

Precise. Mr. Punster.

Punster (rising). Mr. Foreman, and gentlemen of the jury, the party popularly known in this suit as Popgun is a small affair, but I do not wonder that he kicks against this attempt of the government to charge him with powder he never made. How would you like it yourselves, gentlemen? Imagine yourselves Popguns, and happy in the disposing of butter, cheese, and——and hairpins to a needy community. Upon a luckless occasion, you sell ten cents’ worth of powder to a red-headed urchin on the eve of our glorious independence. The awful crime is repeated; and, by the power of government, you innocent Popguns are incarcerated on a grave charge. You hear nothing but powder; you are loaded with reproaches and powder; it is rammed down your throats, until, like Popgun, you burst with indignation. Have we not heard from the lips of competent witnesses the amazing power of his Dead Shot? An old man had suffered forty years with influenza; the Dead Shot stopped it forever. An old lady, bent double with the rheumatism, was made straight by its power. A young mother, whose tender infant had wailed night after night, was loud in its praises. Gentlemen, this suit comes from the malice and jealousy of an envious rival. Gentlemen, this is a conspiracy. Let us clear Popgun of the charges under which he labors, by applying the match of justice to his overloaded soul. Then will he go off triumphantly, scattering destruction among his enemies, and give a good report of our deliberations. (Sits.)

Snowball (jumping up). See here, white folks, what’s de use? what’s de use?

Precise. Mr. Snowball, you’re out of order.

All. Go on, Snowball. Fire away.

Snowball. Mr. Foreman and gemblem. Of course it am. Why not? And, if not, wherefore? I ax you. If de blessed Constitution of dese ere United States ob America don’t permit the humblest of her sex to choose de proper medicines for dar physical systerns, wedder it be gunpowder or gunpowder tea, what’s de use ob bein’ citizens and citizenesses of dese here republic? I ax you. Who’s Popgun? Am he, or am he not, a phusician? I ax you. I don’t care what his moral perquisites be, wedder he vote de demicratic or de bobolition. Does he cure de squills which air am flesh to? I ax you. When dat ar old man, which my white brudder alluded to, had de influendways, did he stop his sneezin? I ax you. When dat ar old woman hobble to him wid de rheumatics, did he straighten her out? I ax you. When dat ar baby squaked in its slumbers of midnight, did Popgun’s Dead Shot fix it? I ax you. If so, and you find it so,——and I ax you to find it so,——you are forced to acquit Popgun as a medical dedical sturgen and phusician——ob course you am; for don’ de stolid phalanx of justice circumbend every man on Columbia’s footstool, wedder black or white, male or female? and de aurora borealistic splendors of eternal vigilance abide in de scrutinized recesses of de enlightened jury-room? I ax you.

O’Rourke. Begorra! send for an interpreter.

Precise. Mr. Short.

Short (comes down to table). It’s my opinion, gentlemen, there’s been a great deal of time and gas wasted in our deliberations. I’ve got very few words to say on this subject. Popgun manufactured an article which the government said was gunpowder. Popgun denies it. That is the question for us to decide. We were shown in the court-room a sample of this disputed article. It looked like gunpowder; it smelt like gunpowder; it felt like gunpowder. I took away the box. Here it is. (Produces box.) Some of you think it is not gunpowder. I propose to give it a practical test. (Places box on table, takes off cover, takes a match out of his pocket.)

Timorous. What! You’re not going to fire it off!

Short. Don’t be alarmed. There’s only a pound or two. It can’t do much damage.

Strongfist. You’ll blow us all up!

Jolly. The man’s crazy.

O’Rourke. Begorra, there! Aisy wid yer pranks.

All. Stop him! Stop him!

Short. Here she goes. (Draws match across table.)

All. Help! Murder! Officer! Put him out, &c. (Timorous crawls under table; Snowball jumps up into chair and makes frantic attempts to crawl up the wall; Doubtful runs into corner, pulls Paunch up to cover him; Blower gets down and covers himself with a chair; Precise stops his ears, and crouches in a corner; Strongfist and Punster seize Short, one on each side; O’Rourke seizes Short by coat-tail behind; Jolly and Slow try to get behind each other.)