The little man ceased, his eyes shrank back into their sockets, his figure back into its mask of shadowy brown and gleaming buttons, and Mr. Bosengate was conscious that the judge was making a series of remarks; and, very soon, of being seated at a mahogany table in the jury’s withdrawing room, hearing the, voice of the man with hair like an Irish terrier’s saying:  “Didn’t he talk through his hat, that little blighter!” Conscious, too, of the commercial traveller, still on his left—­always on his left!—­mopping his brow, and muttering:  “Phew!  It’s hot in there to-day!” while an effluvium, as of an inside accustomed to whisky came from him.  Then the man with the underlip and the three plastered wisps of hair said: 

“Don’t know why we withdrew, Mr. Foreman!”

Mr. Bosengate looked round to where, at the head of the table, Gentleman Fox sat, in defensive gentility and the little white piping to his waistcoat saying blandly: 

“I shall be happy to take the sense of the jury.”

There was a short silence, then the chemist murmured: 

“I should say he must have what they call claustrophobia.”

“Clauster fiddlesticks!  The feller’s a shirker, that’s all.  Missed his wife—­pretty excuse!  Indecent, I call it!”

The speaker was the little wire-haired man; and emotion, deep and angry, stirred in Mr. Bosengate.  That ill-bred little cur!  He gripped the edge of the table with both hands.

“I think it’s d-----d natural!”  he muttered.   But almost before the
words had left his lips he felt dismay.   What had he said—­he, nearly a
colonel of volunteers—­endorsing such a want of patriotism!   And hearing
the commercial traveller murmuring:  “’Ear, ’ear!”  he reddened violently.

The wire-headed man said roughly: 

“There’s too many of these blighted shirkers, and too much pampering of them.”

The turmoil in Mr. Bosengate increased; he remarked in an icy voice: 

“I agree to no verdict that’ll send the man back to prison.”

At this a real tremor seemed to go round the table, as if they all saw themselves sitting there through lunch time.  Then the large grey-haired man given to winking, said: 

“Oh!  Come, sir—­after what the judge said!  Come, sir!  What do you say, Mr. Foreman?”

Gentleman Fox—­as who should say ’This is excellent value, but I don’t wish to press it on you!’—­answered: 

“We are only concerned with the facts.  Did he or did he not try to shorten his life?”

“Of course he did—­said so himself,” Mr. Bosengate heard the wire-haired man snap out, and from the following murmur of assent he alone abstained.  Guilty!  Well—­yes!  There was no way out of admitting that, but his feelings revolted against handing “that poor little beggar” over to the tender mercy of his country’s law.  His whole soul rose in arms against agreeing with that ill-bred little cur, and the rest of this job-lot.  He had an impulse to get up and walk out, saying:  “Settle it your own way.  Good morning.”