in the witness-box.

And I saw that he was dressed in a light frock, not unlike a pinafore,
which was tastefully wrought with divers patterns of needlework on the
front and back thereof; at the openings thus embroidered could be seen a
waistcoat of many stripes, that crossed and recrossed one another at
various angles and were formed of several colours. He wore a high calico
shirt collar, which on either side came close under the ear; and round
his neck a red handkerchief with yellow ends. His linen certainly did
credit to Mrs. Bumpkin's love of "tidiness," and altogether the
prosecutor wore a clean and respectable appearance. His face was broad,
round and red, indicating a jovial disposition and a temperament not
easily disturbed, except when "whate" was down too low to sell and he
wanted to buy stock or pay the rent: a state of circumstances which I
believe has sometimes happened of late years. A white short-clipped
beard covered his chin, while his cheeks were closely shaven. He had
twinkling oval eyes, which I should say, he invariably half-closed when
he was making a bargain. If you offered less than his price the first
refusal would come from them. His nose was inexpressive and appeared to
have been a dormant feature for many a year. It said nothing for or
against any thing or any body, and from its tip sprouted a few white
hairs. His mouth, without utterance, said plainly enough that he owed
"nobody nothink" and was a thousand pound man every morning he rose. It
was a mouth of good bore, and not by any means intended for a silver
spoon.

Such was the Prosecutor as he stood in the witness-box at the Mansion
House on this memorable occasion; and no one could doubt that truth and
justice would prevail.

"Name?" said Mr. Keepimstraight.

"Bumpkin."

Down it goes.

"Where?"

After a pause, which Mr. Nimble makes a note of.

"Where?" repeats Keepimstraight.

"Westminister."

"Where there?"

"'Goose' publichouse."

Down it goes.

"Yes?" says Keepimstraight.

Bumpkin stares.

"Yes, go on," says the clerk.

"Go on," says the crier; "go on," say half-a-dozen voices all round.

"Can't you go on?" says the clerk.

"Tell your story," says his Lordship, putting his arms on the elbows of
the huge chair. "Tell it in your own way, my man."

"I wur gwine down thic place when--" "my man" began.

"What time was this?" asks the clerk.

"Arf arter four, as near as I can tell."

"How do you kn