. . . What have I to sign?"
I asked the sergeant who played escort.
"Oh, but wait a moment," put in Jimmy. "There's another bird. The
animals came in two by two--eh, Sergeant Noah? I say, Otty, you'll
be in a fearful way when you see him. But I couldn't help it--upon
my soul I couldn't: and you'll have to be kind to him."
"Who is it?" I demanded.
"It's--Well, he gave the name of Martin Luther. But you judge for
yourself. Sergeant Bostock--or are you Wombwell?--take Sir Haroun
Alraschid to the next cage and show him the Great Reformer."
To the next cell I was led in a state of expectancy that indeed
justified his allusion to the _Arabian Nights_. And the door opened
and the light shone--upon Mr. Peter Farrell!
It was a swollen eye that Mr. Farrell upturned to us from his low
bed, and a swollen and bloodied lip that babbled contrition along
with appeals to be "got out of this" and lamentations for the day
he was born; and as on that day so on this a mother had found it
hard to recognise him. He wore a goodly but disorganised raiment;
a fur-lined great-coat, evening dress beneath it; but the tie was
missing, the shirt-collar had burst from its stud, the shirt-front
showed blood-stains, dirty finger-marks, smears of mud.
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