PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 93.

October 1, 1887.

THE WAIL OF MESSRS. BURT AND FENWICK.

THE 'EAT OF DISCUSSION.

(A Fancy founded on Facts.)

He left the court with his colleagues at twenty minutes to one o'clock. He said nothing, but listened intently while the question of the Inquest was canvassed. Was it to be a verdict of Manslaughter or Murder, or only Accidental Death? He listened so intently that he was quite surprised when the clock struck two.

Yes two o'clock—time for his lunch!

He rose from his seat, and went to the door. He spoke to one on the other side, he talked of cuts from the joints, and chops and steaks.

He was answered with laughter!

Then he returned to his chair, rather put out at this ill-timed pleasantry, and listened once more to the arguments of his colleagues. They had got beyond the verdict now, and were discussing the "riders." The first, elaborately blaming the Magistrates, had been framed and passed, and the second dealing with the bye-laws of the Town Council was under consideration. Before it was finally settled the clock struck three!

Yes, three! and since twenty-minutes to one he had been locked in lunchless! He went to the door and beat it with his fists!

"Might he have a cut off the joint?"

"No!"

Again he was silent, and again his colleagues continued their discussion. They spoke in lower tones now, because they too were feeling the want of food. Four struck, and then five.

He staggered once more to the door, and in piteous tones made a last request,

Might he have a sandwich?

No!!!!!

It was too much! He ground his teeth in rage! Five hours had elapsed, and then the last and eighth rider, suggesting that after its final completion a theatre should be thrown open for public inspection for a week before a licence was granted, was passed. The work of the Jury was over.

It was indeed a painful scene. The eleven men who had taken part in the discussion were entirely exhausted. Some were slumbering from weakness, others were wearily "talking on their fingers." Hunger had made these last absolutely dumb. Reams of papers were scattered about covered with writing. Here and there was a quill-pen partly consumed. Even the blotting-pads testified to the presence of hungry men—some of the leaves showed the traces of a stealthy nibble. In the heat of argument hours before, a juryman, anxious to impress an opinion upon a sceptic colleague, had offered to "eat his hat." He now gazed at the head-gear with greedy eyes, as if anxious to carry out his proposition.

The Foreman, in a whisper, asked if anyone had any further suggestions to make.

Then the rage of the starving one gave him fictitious strength. He stood up, and shrieked out, "I express my opinion that the non-supply of refreshments to the Jury for several hours is a blot on the legal system of the country!"

In a moment the Foreman and his colleagues sprang to their feet, and, making a supreme effort, shouted out, "Agreed! agreed! agreed!"

And what further did these poor famished men, these heroes of the long, foodless day, these martyrs to a cruel system—a wretched system—these victims to an abuse that should be swept away like chaff before the wind—ay, what farther did they do after their trumpet-tongued cry of indignant denunciation?

Why (it is to be sincerely hoped) that they went home and had their dinner!

THE BICYCLISTS OF ENGLAND.