Honest Alf. " Your Royal Highness, Lordship, Sir - have mercy on my soul - Upon my mother`s death I swear I never pinched that coal "... The judge sat musing once again - the jury muttered low, And Sergeant Thompson shook his head besides the courtroom door. The sympathetic sergeant smiled a long and cautious grin, Extending from his helmet peak to the strap beneath his chin. " Order please ! ", the judge rang out - the shuffling panel froze - The prosecution rose to speak - the lawyer blew his nose. The trembling orphan braced himself but trembled all the same, And almost sank below the dock when asked to state his name. " Alfred Hope " - the choked reply - the cunning Swift bemused - Glanced twice around the shivering hall then faced the pale accused. A shrewd, inclement man was he whom now the court addressed - His name was known for miles around and all declared him best. So well had Alfred cause to quake with guilt upon his face - Charles Swift, the ruthless wig had never lost a case. Keen as the morning frost itself - in many ways more chill - The learned butcher, duty bound , advanced to calve his skill, And like the icy wind that crept around the parish trees, The trial of Honest Alf progressed in painful, slow degrees. Snow lay thick upon those steps where muffled justice cried, Where local interest waited news while Alf was being tried : Where, brave against the arctic draught which scourged the vicar`s way, Comrades of the cold condemned were never far away. Sid the Slinger, Harry Nails - Bill and Betty Brown, And many other friends besides had just arrived in town, Where, stolid as three northern gulls upon some polar rock, Henry, Tom and Hilda Hope, reviewed the town hall clock. A mere eight stones in his running pumps - the jury all agreed - A better man than Alfred Hope could not have had the speed, When, three officers pursued that night - a sergeant and his chief, And though they gave a heated chase, they failed to catch the thief. With whippet haste from Carter`s Yard, around the watchman`s shed, Into the dark December night the lightening culprit fled. Young Thompson followed close behind to be at last dismayed, When o`er the ditch- strewn Butler`s Heath his torch began to fade. Relief came slick from Crankhill Road where constable C. Sloane, Almost had the scoundrel cuffed but stumbled o`er a stone. The rest rejoined in fresh pursuit to comb the maize in vain - The nimble crook was out of sight and never seen again. " Your Royal Highness, Lordship, Sir, may heaven strike me down, And hell engulf my soul in flames if I deceive the Crown, For on that chill, aforesaid night when the alleged offence occurred, I bragged the hour with uncle Ted who`ll vouch my every word. Aunty Lil was present too - the cat curled on her knee, And there we sat from eight o`clock till past the hour of three. Twas I who quenched the flickering wick and I who then did snore, When I was fast asleep in bed around the hour of four ". The judge he beamed a frozen smile - the angry Sloan grew tense, When up sprang hefty Hilda Hope in Alfred Hope`s defence. " It`s true my Lord - my Lord it`s true, and there lies truth indeed, So call this hearing to an end and let this man be freed ". The lightening Swift was slow at last to quip or condescend - The farcial trial of Honest Alf was drawing to an end. The wigs all gazed in disbelief - the Sergeant shook his fist, For lack of evidence alone, the prisoner was dismissed.... The scenes at Alfred`s house that night were warm to say the least, For all had come to gather round and join the good man`s feast. The brewer`s stout was excellent - the butcher`s pork was sweet, And coal enough to last for days made such a noble treat ! Kevin Holcroft.
Posted on: Sat, 10 Aug 2013 15:11:38 +0000