astonishment, for it discovered that whereas in one part of the hall
Deacon Billson was standing up with his head weekly bowed, in
another part of it Lawyer Wilson was doing the same. There was a
wondering silence now for a while. Everybody was puzzled, and
nineteen couples were surprised and indignant.
Billson and Wilson turned and stared at each other. Billson asked,
bitingly:
“Why do YOU rise, Mr. Wilson?”
“Because I have a right to. Perhaps you will be good enough to
explain to the house why YOU rise.”
“With great pleasure. Because I wrote that paper.”
“It is an impudent falsity! I wrote it myself.”
It was Burgess’s turn to be paralysed. He stood looking vacantly at
first one of the men and then the other, and did not seem to know
what to do. The house was stupefied. Lawyer Wilson spoke up now,
and said:
“I ask the Chair to read the name signed to that paper.”
That brought the Chair to itself, and it read out the name:
“John Wharton BILLSON.”
“There!” shouted Billson, “what have you got to say for yourself
now? And what kind of apology are you going to make to me and to
this insulted house for the imposture which you have attempted to
play here?”
“No apologies are due, sir; and as for the rest of it, I publicly
charge you with pilfering my note from Mr. Burgess and substituting
a copy of it signed with your own name. There is no other way by
which you could have gotten hold of the test-remark; I alone, of
living men, possessed the secret of its wording.”
There was likely to be a scandalous state of things if this went on;
everybody noticed with distress that the shorthand scribes were
scribbling like mad; many people were crying “Chair, chair! Order!
order!” Burgess rapped with his gavel, and said:
“Let us not forget the proprieties due. There has evidently been a
mistake somewhere, but surely that is all. If Mr. Wilson gave me an
envelope–and I remember now that he did–I still have it.”
He took one out of his pocket, opened it, glanced at it, looked
surprised and worried, and stood silent a few moments. Then he
waved his hand in a wandering and mechanical way, and made an effort
or two to say something, then gave it up, despondently. Several
voices cried out:
“Read it! read it! What is it?”
So he began, in a dazed and sleep-walker fashion:
“‘The remark which I made to the unhappy stranger was this: “You
are far from being a bad man. [The house gazed at him marvelling.]
Go, and reform.”‘ [Murmurs: “Amazing! what can this mean?”] This
one,” said the Chair, “is signed Thurlow G. Wilson.”
“There!” cried Wilson, “I reckon that settles it! I knew perfectly
well my note was purloined.”
“Purloined!” retorted Billson. “I’ll let you know that neither you
nor any man of your kidney must venture to–”
The Chair: “Order, gentlemen, order! Take your seats, both of you,
please.”
They obeyed, shaking their heads and grumbling angrily. The house
was profoundly puzzled; it did not know what to do with this curious
emergency. Presently Thompson got up. Thompson was the hatter. He
would have liked to be a Nineteener; but such was not for him; his
stock of hats was not considerable enough for the position. He
said:
“Mr. Chairman, if I may be permitted to make a suggestion, can both
of these gentlemen be right? I put it to you, sir, can both have
happened to say the very same words to the stranger? It seems to
me–”
The tanner got up and interrupted him. The tanner was a disgruntled
man; he believed himself entitled to be a Nineteener, but he
couldn’t get recognition. It made him a little unpleasant in his
ways and speech. Said he:
“Sho, THAT’S not the point! THAT could happen–twice in a hundred
years–but not the other thing. NEITHER of them gave the twenty
dollars!” [A ripple of applause.]
Billson. “I did!”
Wilson. “I did!”
Then each accused the other of pilfering.
The Chair. “Order! Sit down, if you please–both of you. Neither
of the notes has been out of my possession at any moment.”