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."
