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