only consequence to be feared. But he’s a sneak; he dodges the tax. That we must not suffer. The medicine story won’t do; the dose is too heavy; it won’t stay on the stomach. That gun recoils upon Popgun, who is too heavily charged by the evidence to be discharged by this jury. (Sits.)

Precise. Order, gentlemen. Mr. Doubtful.

Snowball. No, sar, no, sar. I move we lay him onto de table, sinner die.

O’Rourke. Die, is it, ye black sinner? Howld yer pate, or you’ll die jist.

Doubtful (rising). Mr. Foreman, and gentlemen of the jury, there’s one p’int in this evidence I want cleared up.

O’Rourke. Is it a pint of whiskey, I donno?

All. Order, order.

O’Rourke. That’s what I’d like to do, and drink it, too.

Doubtful. If that air Popgun made gunpowder, why didn’t somebody see him do it? Cause a man’s got saltpetre in his house, and sulphur and charcoal, it doesn’t foller that he’s going to make gunpowder. I’ve got charcoal in my house——kindle the fire with it; sulphur to bleach with; saltpetre for curing purposes. But nobody ever said I made gunpowder. It’s rediculous. Popgun’s got eggs in his store. Why don’t you say he hatched them? (Sits.)

Snowball. Da’s a fac’, da’s a fac’. Second de motion.

All. Order, order.

Precise. Mr. Strongfist.

Strongfist. Well, you’re a pretty set of sneaks over there, you are.

All. Order, order.

Strongfist. O, I know what I’m about. I’d like to get in among you. I believe in justice. I believe in any man’s having his say in this world; but I don’t believe in arguing about a matter that’s as plain as the nose on your face. The man made gunpowder, and sold it, didn’t pay the tax, and you fellows over there know it. You’re a set of obstinate fools; and it’s the duty of all loyal citizens to stand by the government and punish traitors. The government’s been insulted by this contemptible Popgun, and you fellows on the left uphold him. Our duty is clear, to bring you to your senses. (Takes off coat.) So, come on. (Squares off.)

O’Rourke. I’m wid yez. Fag a ballah! Erin come unim.

All. Order, order.

Precise. Gentlemen, peace, I pray. Mr. Strongfist, your argument is very weak.

Strongfist. Is it? Well, my fist is strong; let me try that.

Precise. No, sir; you will please be seated. Mr. Paunch.

Snowball (shaking him). Here, Mr. Punch, Mr. Punch.

Paunch. Hey? O, yes. Mr. Foreman, I’ve got precious little to say. I’m hungry; I’ve had nothing to eat since morning. I was invited out to dinner at five o’clock with Alderman Cross. Fine leg of venison and native tomatoes, sliced, stewed, and broiled. The alderman is a capital eater, weighs three hundred and fifty, and has the best hogs——

Precise. Won’t you confine yourself to the question, Mr. Paunch?

Paunch. O, yes. Hogshead of Madeira you ever tasted. It’s capital. Then his cheeses! Good gracious! they’re mighty——

Precise. Mr. Paunch, Mr. Paunch!

Paunch. They’re mighty fine. What did you say, sir?

Precise. Will you give your reasons for voting “Not guilty”?

Paunch. Certainly. Stop. Did I vote “Not guilty”? I don’t remember. It don’t make any difference. Settle it as you please, only remember I must dine with Alderman Cross at five. (Sits and goes to sleep again.)

Snowball. Question, question! We’ll all dine with Cross, hey! I ax you.

Precise. Mr. Slow, you next.

Slow. Hey? Yes. Well, I don’t know. Popgun did make gunpowder, I guess, cause he had a little shop. (Pauses.)

Precise. Well, go on, Mr. Slow.

Slow. Yes. Well, he had a little shop, Popgun had, and he made somethin’ in that shop; and if he didn’t make gunpowder, he made somethin’ in that little shop that he didn’t pay no tax onto. And so he’s guilty er somethin’ or other in that little shop. So long’s he’s caught, what’s the odds, as long as you’re happy. (Sits.)

Snowball. Doubted, doubted.

All. Order.

Precise. Mr. Blower.

Blower (rises, flourishes his handkerchief, blows his nose, strikes an attitude). M-r-r-r-r. Foreman, and genteelmen of the jury, it is with spontaneous emotion that I rise to address you. You, genteelmen, with me, have looked upon a touching scene to-day. We have seen an enlightened citizen of this great republic, which, like the light of yonder firmament, attracts the attention of the whole world. We have seen him dragged from the bosom of his family and placed at the bar, at the bar, gentlemen, there to answer to grave and serious charges. It is evident that in the mysterious depths of that little back shop something has been concocted. The government says “Powder;” the defendant says “Shot.” Powder and shot! “Powder” or “shot,” in this case. One possesses the power to blow the human frame into infinitesimal particles; the other cures all ills that flesh is heir to. Can we pause and deliberate? Look at that man, dragged from the bosom of his family; his wife and children——

Jolly. Beg your pardon, Blower. Popgun is single.

Blower. Hey? Dragged from the paternal mansion. Hear the cry of the agonized and aged mother of the prisoner, as she stands upon the doorstep and screams, “My child! Bring back my little Popgun!”

Jolly. Wrong again, Blower. He’s neither father nor mother.