Mr. Bumpkin climbed into the witness-box (as though he were going up a rick), which was situated between the Judge and the jury. His appearance again provoked a titter through the Court; but it was not loud enough to call for any further measure of suppression than the usual “Si—lence!” loudly articulated in two widely separated syllables by the crier, who had no sooner pronounced it than he turned his face from the learned Judge and pressed his hand tightly against his mouth, straining his eyes as if he had swallowed a crown-piece. Mr. Bumpkin wore his long drab frock overcoat, with the waist high up and its large flaps; his hell-fire waistcoat, his trousers of corduroy, and his shirt-collar, got up expressly for the occasion as though he had been a prime minister. The ends of his neckerchief bore no inconsiderable likeness to two well-grown carrots. In his two hands he carefully nursed his large-brimmed well-shaped white beaver hat; a useful article to hold in one’s hands when there is any danger of nervousness, for nothing is so hard to get rid of as one’s hands. I am not sure that Mr. Bumpkin was nervous. He was a brave self-contained man, who had fought the world and conquered. His maxim was, “right is right,” and “wrong is no man’s right.” He was of the upright and down-straight character, and didn’t care “for all the counsellors in the kingdom.” And why should he? His cause was good, his conscience clear, and the story he had to tell plain and “straightforrard” as himself. No wonder then that his face beamed with a good old country smile, such as he would wear at an exhibition where he could show the largest “turmut as ever wur growed.” That was the sort of smile he turned upon the audience. And as the audience looked at the “turmut,” it felt that it was indeed the most extraordinary specimen of field culture it had ever beheld, and worthy of the first prize.
“What is your name?” inquired Mr. Newboy; “I mustn’t lead.”
“Bumpkin, and I bearned asheamed on ’im,” answered the bold farmer.
“Never mind whether you are ashamed or not,” interposed Mr. Nimble; “just answer the question.”
“You must answer,” remarked the learned Judge, “not make a speech.”
“Zackly, sir,” said Bumpkin, pulling at his hair.