A JUDGE who had for years looked in vain for an opportunity for
infamous¹ distinction, but whom no litigant² thought worth bribing³,
sat one day upon the Bench, lamenting⁴ his hard lot, and threatening
to put an end to his life if business did not improve.  Suddenly he
found himself confronted by a dreadful figure clad in a shroud⁵,
whose pallor and stony⁶ eyes smote⁷ him with a horrible apprehension⁸.

  "Who are you," he faltered⁹, "and why do you come here?"

  "I am the Rash Act," was the sepulchral¹⁰ reply; "you may commit me."

  "No," the judge said, thoughtfully, "no, that would be quite
irregular.  I do not sit to-day as a committing magistrate¹¹."

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