On the jury, it so happened, was an elderly Quaker, in his full array of drab coat, vest, and breeches, with the regulation blue stockings.  He had long whitish hair, and a Quaker hat in front of him on the ledge of the jury-box.  He was what might be called a “factor” in the situation, which it was no easy matter to know in a moment how to deal with.  He would be against prize-fighting to a certainty, but how far he might be inclined to convict a prize-fighter was another matter.  At last I made up my mind in what way to deal with him, and it was this—­not on the merits of the noble art itself, but on those of the case.  If I could convince this conscientious juror that there might be (that would be good enough) a doubt as to identity, it would be sufficient for my purpose; so I mainly addressed myself to him, after disposing of the young policeman pretty satisfactorily, leaving only his bare belief to be dealt with in argument.  The young policeman’s belief that that there was the man showed what a strong young policeman he was.

I asked the Quaker to allow me to suggest, for the sake of argument only, that he, the Quaker, should imagine himself putting off his Quaker dress, and assuming the costume of a prize-fighter, his hair cut so short that it would present the appearance of an aged rat; “then,” said I, “divest yourself of your shirt and flannel—­strip yourself, in fact, quite to the skin above your belt—­and with only a pair of cotton drawers of a sky blue, or any other colour you might prefer, and, say, a bird’s-eye fogle round your waist, your lower limbs terminating in cotton socks and high-lows—­with the additional ornamentation to all this elegant drapery of a couple of your front teeth knocked out—­and I will venture to ask you, sir, and any one of the gentlemen whom I am addressing, whether you think your own good and respectable wife herself would recognize the partner of her joys?”

The burst of laughter which this little transformation of the respectable, stout old Quaker occasioned I was in no way responsible for; but even Old Parke fell back in his seat, and said,—­

“Mr. Hawkins!  Mr. Hawkins!”

I knew what that meant, and when the usher, by dint of much clamour, secured me another hearing, I continued,—­

“Nay, sir, and if you looked at yourself in a looking-glass you would not be able to recognize a single feature you possessed, had you been battered about the face as the unfortunate man was.  Why, the young policeman says in his evidence his nose was flattened, his, eyes were swollen black, blue, and red, his cheeks gashed and bloody!  But it is enough:  if that is a correct description, although a mild one, of the man as he appeared after the scene of the conflict, how can you expect the young constable to recognize such an individual months afterwards, or any of the witnesses, although to their dying day they would not forget the terrible disfigurement of the poor fellow whom you are supposed to be trying?”