and mercy; only he left out the first two ingredients. After the mental strain of that historical verdict recounted above, his lordship took a holiday. He had an offer of a seat in a balloon which was about to ascend, and accepted. The machine ascended successfully from his lordship's grounds, sailed majestically out to sea, and disappeared in the distance.
With the utmost anxiety the whole community waited for further news of the balloon; but none arrived. Either the eminent judge had been picked up by a passing ship bound for some remote parts, or he had perished.
A year passed without news; and it was then decided to erect a cenotaph to his lordship in Westminster Abbey.
One evening some time after this decision, Jemmy Wedge and Bill Slinker, the eminent burglars, sat in their humble room near the Mint, arranging the final details of a burglary dated for the following evening. Jemmy's eye, glancing casually round the room, perceived a dim figure standing in a dark corner. With a strong expression of disapproval, Jemmy jumped to his feet and sprang towards the intruding eavesdropper; but stopped suddenly with an ejaculation of surprise as he recognised the well-known and revered features of Lord Justice Pimblekin!
A flood of contending emotions welled up in the mind of Jemmy Wedge—rage at the overhearing of his plans by an intruder, and that intruder an administrator of the law; fear of the consequences; inveterate and deep-rooted affection for the judge who had so often saved him from the well-merited penalties of crime; surprise, wonder.
His arm, raised to fell the eavesdropper, sank impotently to his side: he gasped and stared.
"You need have no anxiety," said Lord Justice Pimblekin in a strange, hollow, far-off voice, "your secret is safe with me. I will not blow the gaff."
These words, spoken with the quiet judicial accent which Jemmy knew so well, yet in the far-off tone mentioned above, made Jemmy's eyes rounder than ever with wonderment.
No word of slang had ever before passed the lips of the judge: for slang might indeed be unintelligible to a judge who knew not what a race-course was, and would ask in court, "What is the 'Stock Exchange'—is it a cattle market?"
Lord Justice Pimblekin's head was drooped hopelessly upon his bosom; and he now covered his face with his trembling hands, while a bright tear crept out between his fingers, as he murmured in a quivering voice, "I am one of you now! I'm a pal—that's what I am; straight, and no kid, my pippin!" The painful effort with which these words were uttered was apparent in his whole frame. He had not finished speaking; he was obviously struggling with another word, which threatened to choke him. With an expression of horror and despair, he clutched his bald head; and then the word came—the single word "Blimey!" It was uttered in the same soft, mincing, judicial accents.
Then his lordship moved across the room and, sitting upon the table near the fire, drew out a short dirty clay pipe, lit it at the candle, and sat puffing at it; an occasional tear still creeping down his furrowed neek.
"You may proceed with your deliberations with a perfect sense of security," he said anon. "Djeer, old pal? I ain't goin' to give yer away."
Every phrase of this kind evidently inflicted upon the unfortunate judge the most acute pain.
"To convince you how little you have to
