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don’t withdraw the proceedings against his father,” and the sergeant will say: “What crime is that, Mr Chilton?” And you will put your hand through what hair you have left and probably say: “Well, it must be blackmail.” Well, don’t take it from me, Mr Chilton, but I can assure you it isn’t. You go to your solicitors, or you go to the police and they will tell you. I’m asking for nothing for myself. My father hasn’t the faintest idea that I’m doing this. He’d be horrified if he knew. Now, Mr Chilton, would you like to go to that police station and confess that you keep two sets of books? Or will you instruct your counsel in the morning to give up your claim?’
    Mr Chilton did not say anything for a moment, and then: ‘When I said that you were the nastiest little boy I’d ever seen,’ he said, ‘it was an understatement. Now go to hell. You know the way, I see.’
    I was told that later that evening David approached his father.
    ‘I’m sorry the case is going against you, father,’ he said, ‘what’ll it cost?’
    ‘I don’t so much mind the money, David,’ said his father, ‘but it’s losing to that self-satisfied, mealy-mouthed scoundrel of a schoolmaster that troubles me. I hate the thought of it.’
    ‘Would you like to win the case, father?’ asked David.
    ‘Of course I would. I’d give a good deal to win it.’
    ‘How much? £50?’
    ‘More.’
    ‘I’ll settle for £50,’ said David.
    ‘What d’you mean?’ said his father.
    ‘If you win the case,’ said David, ‘will you give me £50.’
    ‘All right,’ said his father, ‘I will. I’d much rather give you £50 for nothing than pay a penny to that so-and-so.’
    ‘Done, father,’ said David, ‘Can I have it in fivers?’
    ‘I only hope you get it.’
    ‘I’ll get it all right, father. You have it ready to give me as soon as the judge gives judgment for you.’
    And, when next day came round, to the Major-General’s surprise, as well as to mine, Mr Chilton withdrew the case and agreed to pay the defendant’s costs.
    ‘I’ve never been so pleased to pay out on a wager, my boy,’ said his father as he gave the £50 to David. ‘And you got it by fair means this time, no false pretences, no blackmail, nothing. All fair and above board, you’ve earned it.’
    ‘Yes, I think I’ve earned it, father,’ said David.
    ‘And now, my boy,’ said his father, ‘have you had any more thought about what you’re going to do?’
    ‘I think,’ said David, ‘I’d like to follow in grandfather’s footsteps.’
    ‘But he was a bishop,’ said his father.
    ‘That’s right,’ said David.
    I remembered then that Mr Chilton had said that some of his worst boys had become pillars of the Church.

CHAPTER THREE
Perjury
    The offence of perjury strikes at the root of justice. But, in my opinion, many lawyers and laymen do not treat it seriously enough. A man charged with a crime is pretty well given a free licence to commit as much perjury as he likes in his attempts to be acquitted of the crime with which he’s charged. The amount of perjury committed in criminal trials is tremendous. Every day men and women are swearing what they know to be false. But prosecutions after a conviction or an acquittal of a man who has committed perjury in the witness box are extremely rare. I do not pretend that the problem in the case of criminal trials is an easy one. Up to seventy years ago an accused person was not allowed to give evidence at all. That is obviously highly unsatisfactory. But now we seem to have gone to the other extreme. The reason why prisoners were not allowed to give evidence before 1898 was ecclesiastical in origin. It was feared that they might perjure their immortal souls in their efforts to escape conviction. It is not easy to find the solution which will at the same time give prisoners the right to give evidence on oath, and nevertheless make them less inclined to break that oath.
    But, while the solution