CHAPTER III.

JUSTICE GOES TO DINNER.

Wesley Tiffles was then examined.  He commenced with an eloquent dissertation on the rights of man, and his own rights in particular, but stopped when he saw that the reporters tucked their pencils behind their ears, and waited for facts.  The moment he began to talk facts—­which are to reporters what corn is to crows—­down came the pencils from their perches again, and went tripping over the paper.

Mr. Tiffles’s testimony would have consumed two hours, or two days, perhaps, if he had been allowed to go on unchecked.  But the coroner had been invited to dine at a Broadway restaurant, with a few political friends, at three P.M.  So he concluded, after Tiffles had talked five minutes, that he knew nothing about the murder, and could throw no light on it, and told Tiffles that he was not wanted further.

“And you mean to tell me, sir, that I am not to be locked up in the station house to-night,” said Tiffles.

“No, unless yer want ter be.”

“Of course not—­of course not.”  But the interior Tiffles was disappointed at this sudden and unromantic termination of his case.  A few more nights in the station house, or in the Tombs, would have given him capital material for a book, of which he had already projected the first chapter.  He sat down, and execrated his ill luck.

Patching, the artist, was then interrogated, to the extent of two minutes, and corroborated Tiffles’s testimony as to the sad and strange appearance of Mr. Wilkeson on the day after the supposed murder.  Patching was then informed by the coroner that his further attendance at the inquest would not be required.

Patching, on rising, had assumed the attitude of Paul before Felix, as set forth in some ancient cartoon; and in that position of mingled innocence, dignity, and defiance, the artist of the illustrated paper got a spirited sketch of him.  Had Patching dreamed how capitally his long hair, peaked beard, thin nose, and bony forehead would be taken off, in a rough but faithful character portrait, he would have sunk in confusion.  Happily, the newspaper artist was sitting almost behind his more pretentious brother of the canvas, and the latter knew not what had been done, until, the following week, he saw a striking intensification of himself staring into the street from numerous bulletin boards and shop windows.

Before sitting down, Mr. Patching begged to explain to the jury, and to the public through the reporters (who did not take down a word of the explanation), that he had painted the panorama of Africa to oblige his friend, “Wesley Tiffles.  It was hardly necessary for him to say, in this community, that he was more at home among higher walks of Art.

“Are you a sign painter, Mr. Patching?” asked the coroner.  “No, sir; I am not,” said Patching, with dignified contempt.

“Perhaps you’re a carriage painter, then?  Them’s the fellers for picturin’.  The woman and flowers on the Bully Boys’ hose carriage wos well done.  Hey, Jack?”