What do they know? They know that you are a bore
or not a bore, a grouser or not a grouser, generous
or mean, sentimental or cynical, an optimist or a
pessimist, and that you have or have not a sense of
humour. None of these is a criminal offence.
Is there anything else that your friends can say about
you which can establish the likelihood of your innocence?
Not very much. Nor should we be flattered if there
were. When somebody says of us, “Oh, I can
read old Jones like a book; I know him inside and
out—for the most straightforward, simple
creature,” we protest indignantly. But if
somebody says, “There’s a lot more in
Jones than you think; I shall never quite understand
him,” then we look modestly down our nose and
tell ourselves that we are Jones, the Human Enigma.
Women have learnt all about this. They realize
that the best way to flatter us is to say earnestly,
with a shake of the head, “Your face is such
a mask; I shall never know what you’re really
thinking.” How that makes us purr!
No, our friends cannot help us much, once we are in
the dock. They will protest, good friends that
they are, that we are utterly incapable of the crime
of which we are accused (and in my case, of course,
they will be right), but the jury will know that our
friends do not really know; or at any rate the jury
will guess that we have not asked those of our friends
who did know to speak for us. We must rely on
ourselves; on our speech from the dock; on our demeanour
under cross-examination; on——
“Your dining-room window open,” said the
policeman reproachfully.
“I’m sorry,” I said; “I won’t
leave it open again.”
Fortunately, however, they can’t arrest you
for it. So I led the way out of the library and
opened the front door. The policeman went quietly.
A Digression
My omnibus left the broad and easy way which leads
to Victoria Station and plunged into the strait and
narrow paths which land you into the river at Vauxhall
if you aren’t careful, and I peered over the
back to have another look at its number. The
road-mending season is in full swing now, but no amount
of road-mending could account for such a comprehensive
compass as we were fetching. For a moment I thought
that the revolution had begun. “’Busful
of Bourgeoisie Kidnapped” would make a good
head-line for the papers. Or perhaps it was merely
a private enterprise. We were to be held for
ransom in some deserted warehouse on the margin of
the Thames, into which, if the money were not forthcoming,
we should be dropped with a weight at the feet on
some dark and lonely night.... Fortunately the
conductor came up at this stage of the journey and
said “Ennimorfairplees,” whereupon I laid
my fears before him and begged him to let me know the
worst. He replied briefly, “Shorerpersher,”
and went down again. So that was it.
