The evidence was all in. The machinery of the Law had worked without a hitch. And the beak, having adjusted a pair of pince-nez which looked as though they were going to do a nosedive any moment, coughed like a pained sheep and slipped us the bad news.
“The prisoner Wooster,” he said—and who can paint the shame and agony of Bertram at hearing himself so described?—“will pay a fine of five pounds.”
“Oh, rather,” I said. “Absolutely. Like a shot.”
I was dashed glad to get the thing settled at such a reasonable figure. I gazed across what they call the sea of faces till I picked up Jeeves, sitting at the back. Stout fellow, he had come to see the young master through his hour of trial.
“I say, Jeeves,” I sang out, “have you got a fiver? I’m a bit short.”
“Silence!” bellowed some officious blighter.
“It’s all right,” I said; “just arranging the financial details. Got the stuff, Jeeves?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good egg!”
“Are you a friend of the prisoner?” asked the beak.
“I am in Mr. Wooster’s employment, your worship, in the capacity of gentleman’s personal gentleman.”
“Then pay the fine to the clerk.”