Having taken several special glasses, Fetter is
much annoyed at sundry remarks made by his friends, who press round
him, seeming anxious to instruct him on intricate points of the
"nigger statutes." One hopes he will not let the nigger off without
a jolly good hanging; another will bet his life Felsh takes care of
that small item, for then his claim on the state treasury will be
doubled. And now, Fetter finding that Felsh, having imbibed rather
freely of the liquid, hath somewhat diminished his brilliant
faculties, will take him by the arm and return into court. With all
the innate dignity of great jurists they enter their sanctum of
justice, as the usher exclaims, "Court! Court!-hats off and cigars
out!"
"Jury are present?" enquires Fetter, with great gravity, bowing to
one side and then to the other, as he resumes his seat on the
tribune.
"Present, yer 'oner;" the officer answers in a deep, gruff voice, as
he steps forward and places a volume of the revised statutes before
that high jurist. Fetter moves the book to his left, where Felsh has
taken his seat. With placid countenance and softest accents, Fetter
orders the prisoner at the bar to stand up while our constable calls
the names of the jurymen.
Our victim of democracy's even-handed justice obeys the summons,
rising as his dark eyes flash angrily, and that hatred wrong which
lurks in his bosom seems kindling anew. "James M'Neilty! Terrance
M'Quade! Harry Johanna! Baldwin Dobson! Patrick Henessy! Be dad and
I have um all now, yer 'oner," ejaculates the official, exultingly,
as one by one the "nigger jurymen" respond to the call and take
their seats on a wooden slab at the right of his Honour, squire
Fetter.
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