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Sunday afternoon.

At one o'clock there had been the roll-call which shut off number 60 from contact with the world, but did not shut off the life in it. That day there was none of the usual drably bitter and sluggish feeling caused by the lingering hours on Sunday afternoons,—on the contrary, the room began to be filled with bustle and tumult, as if agreat moving job were about to take place. Tables, benches and straw mattresses were shifted about, dust arose, noisy discussions took place, where-upon the room afforded the following spectacle: In the centre both tables stood together at an obtuse angle, behind them lay the straw mattresses arranged as seats, flanked sideways with benches; on the seats presided Mr. Fels in the place of honour a chairman of the day's proceedings; his adjuncts consisted of all honourable inmates of number 60, as far as other functions had not been assigned to them, such as Karl, who, equipped with the piece of a broom-handle, was a defence-corps man and court guard; further Mr. Simon Lamm, who was the accused and, in the meanwhile, was skulking in our telephone box; Mr. Kretzer, who was his defending counsel, and myself, who was supreme provost-marshal, and representative of the monarchy's infringed interests. Of the witnesses summoned, three were present,—Papa Declich, Dr. Povich-Rosetti and Mr. Aaron Wilder, hotel-keeper from Cracow; those who had not appeared were Mr. Janko Mlacker, the artillery-man who had got into trouble about the boots, and finally, the king of Magyar pickpockets.

The supreme provost-marshal called upon the chairman of the court to have the accused brought forward.

The chairman issued the order.