The Clerk of the Court with awful dignity suggests getting a move on. Mr. Blaythwayte{original had "Blathwayte"} who, as well as Clerk of the Court is also Town Clerk of Bilbury, was born in 1850 and, having survived the intervening years, now demands the production of the prisoner from below. Looking at this dignitary one gets the poetic impression of a mass of white hair, white moustache, white whiskers, white beard and white wig, with little bits of bright red face appearing in between. From a crevice in one of these patches come the ominous words, of which we catch but a sample or two: "... Prisoner at the bar ... for that you did ... steal, take and carry away ... pairs of boots ... of our Lord the King, his crown and dignity." At this moment there arrives in court a sinister figure wearing the wig and gown so much affected by the English Bar. Plainly a man of character and of moment; obviously selected with great care for this highly difficult and delicate matter. His features are sharp, clean-cut. One feels that they have been sharpened and cut clean this very morning. In his hand he holds the fateful brief, pregnant with damnatory facts. He makes his way into the pen reserved "For Counsel only." The usher locks him in for safety's sake. PERSONS IN THE DRAMA (SO FAR). _Mr. Augustus Jones._ Recorder. Born in 1873.{missing period in original} _Mr. Joseph K. Blaythwayte._ Clerk of the Court. Born in 1850. _Absalom Adkins_, of uncertain age, supposed boot-fancier. _Our Lord the King_, whose peace, crown and dignity are reported to have been rudely disturbed by the alleged activities of Absalom Adkins. Who is this strong silent man, this robed counsellor trusted with the case of the Crown? Who is it? It is I! Born in the year--but if I'm to tell my life story it's a thousand pounds I want. Make it guineas and I will include portraits of self and relations, with place of birth, inset. The scenario (or do we mean the scene?) is now complete. Leading characters, minor characters, chorus, supernumeraries and I myself are all on the stage. Absalom Adkins, clad in a loose-fitting corduroy lounge suit and his neck encased in a whitish kerchief, rises from his seat. Mr. Jones, the Recorder, does much as he was doing before--nothing in particular. Counsel for the prosecution re-reads his brief, underlines the significant points, forgets that his pencil is a blue one and licks it. On a side-table, impervious to their surroundings and apparently unconcerned with their significance, sit the crucial boots. "How say you, Absalom Adkins"--such the concluding words of the Clerk, the finish of the prologue which rings up the curtain on this human drama--"how say you? Are you guilty or not guilty?" "Guilty," says Absalom, and that ends it. * * * * *