s was settin' on th' window-sill, whistlin' 'Garry Owen,'
an' makin' faces at th' gallant corryspondint iv th' Daily Wrongs iv
Man. At this point he cried out laughingly: 'I will not conthradict
th' gin'ral. I will say he lies. I saw th' letter mesilf, an' that man
was Esterhazy.' [Sensation.]

"'Let me ask this canal iv a Jew a question,' says th' corryspondint
iv th' evening Rothscheeld Roaster, a Fr-rinchman be th' name iv Sol
Levi.

"'Ask it,' says Cap Dhryfuss.

"'You are a despicable thraitor,' says th' gallant corryspondint.
[Sensation.]

"'Th' pris'ner must answer,' says th' coort. 'It is now nearly six
o'clock iv th' mornin', an' time to get up an' dhress.'

"'I refuse to make anny commint,' says Cap Dhryfuss,

"The pris'ner's remark, uttered in tones iv despair, caused gr-reat
emotion in th' aujience. There were angry cries iv 'Lynch him!' an'
all eyes were tur-rned to th' Cap.

"'Silence!' roared th' coort, bendin' a stern, inflexible look on th'
pris'ner. 'This is a coort iv justice. We ar-re disposed f'r to grant
ivry indulgence; but, if outsiders persist in intherferin' with these
proceedin's,' he says, 'we'll expel thim fr'm th' r-room. What does
th' prisoner think this is?'

"'I thought it was a thrile,' says th' Cap; 'but, be th' number iv
vet'ran journalists here, it must be th' openin' iv a new hotel.'

"'Not another wurrud,' says th' coort, 'or ye'll be fired out. No wan
shall insult th' honest, hard-wurrukin', sober, sensible journalists
iv Fr-rance. Not if this coort knows it. Ye bet ye, boys, th' coort is
with ye. Th' press is th' palajeen iv our liberties. Gin'ral Merceer
will raysume his tistimony. He was speakin' of th' game iv goluf.'

"'Perhaps I'd betther sing it,' says th' gin'ral.

"'I'll play an accompanymint f'r ye on th' flute,' says th' prisident
iv th' coort. 'While Gin'ral Merceer is proceedin' with his remarks,
call Colonel Pat th' Clam, who is sick an' can't come. Swear Gin'ral
Billot, Gin'ral Boisdeffer, Gin'ral Chammy, an' th' former mimbers iv
th' governmint.'

"'I object to thim bein' sworn,' says Matther Blamange.

"'They must be sworn,' says th' prisident. 'How th' divvle can they
perjure thimsilves if they ain't sworn? An' who ar-re ye, annyhow?'

"'I'm th' counsel f'r th' pris'ner,' says Matther Blamange. 'Get out
ye'ersilf,' says Matther Blamange. 'I'm as good a man as ye ar-re. I
will ask that gintleman who jest wint out the dure, Does it pay to
keep up