It was in the fourth year of my apprenticeship to Joe, and it was a
Saturday night. There was a group assembled round the fire at the Three
Jolly Bargemen, attentive to Mr. Wopsle as he read the newspaper aloud.
Of that group I was one.
A highly popular murder had been committed, and Mr. Wopsle was imbrued
in blood to the eyebrows. He gloated over every abhorrent adjective
in the description, and identified himself with every witness at the
Inquest. He faintly moaned, "I am done for," as the victim, and he
barbarously bellowed, "I'll serve you out," as the murderer. He gave the
medical testimony, in pointed imitation of our local practitioner; and
he piped and shook, as the aged turnpike-keeper who had heard blows, to
an extent so very paralytic as to suggest a doubt regarding the mental
competency of that witness. The coroner, in Mr. Wopsle's hands, became
Timon of Athens; the beadle, Coriolanus. He enjoyed himself thoroughly,
and we all enjoyed ourselves, and were delightfully comfortable. In this
cosey state of mind we came to the verdict Wilful Murder.
Then, and not sooner, I became aware of a strange gentleman leaning over
the back of the settle opposite me, looking on. There was an expression
of contempt on his face, and he bit the side of a great forefinger as he
watched the group of faces.
"Well!" said the stranger to Mr. Wopsle, when the reading was done, "you
have settled it all to your own satisfaction, I have no doubt?"
Everybody started and looked up, as if it were the murderer. He looked
at everybody coldly and sarcastically.
"Guilty, of course?" said he. "Out with it. Come!"
"Sir," returned Mr. Wopsle, "without having the honor of your
acquaintance, I do say Guilty." Upon this we all took courage to unite
in a confirmatory murmur.
"I know you do," said the stranger; "I knew you would. I told you so.
But now I'll ask you a question. Do you know, or do you not know,
that the law of England supposes every man to be innocent, until he is
proved-proved--to be guilty?"
"Sir," Mr. Wopsle began to reply, "as an Englishman myself, I--"
"Come!" said the stranger, biting his forefinger at him. "Don't evade
the question. Either you know it, or you don't know it. Which is it to
be?"
He stood with his head on one side and himself on one side, in a
Bullying, interrogative manner, and he threw his forefinger at Mr.
Wopsle,--as it were to mark him out--before biting it again.