ave put it down
again.'

'But you were trespassing,' said the Clerk.

'I didn't know it. There wasn't no notice-board.'

'Now, Oby,' cried the head keeper, 'you know you've been along that lane
this ten years.'

'That will do' (from the chairman); 'is there any more evidence?'

As none was forthcoming, the Bench turned a little aside and spoke in
low tones. The defendant's wife immediately set up a sobbing, varied
occasionally by a shriek; the infant woke up and cried, and two or three
women of the same party behind began to talk in excited tones about
'Shame.' The sentence was 2_l_. and costs--an announcement that caused a
perfect storm of howling and crying.

The defendant put his hands in his pockets with the complacent
expression of a martyr. 'I must go to gaol a' spose; none of ourn ever
went thur afore: a' spose _I_ must go.' 'Come,' said the Clerk, 'why,
you or your brother bought a piece of land and a cottage not long
ago,'--then to the Bench, 'They're not real gipsies: he is a grandson of
old Bottleton who had the tollgate; you recollect, Sir.'

But the defendant declares he has no money; his friends shake their
heads gloomily; and amid the shrieking of his wife and the crying of the
child he is removed in the custody of two constables, to be presently
conveyed to gaol. With ferocious glances at the Bench, as if they would
like to tear the chairman's eyes out, the women leave the court.

'Next case,' calls the Clerk. The court sits about two hours longer,
having taken some five hours to get through six cases. Just as the
chairman rises the poacher's wife returns to the table, without her
child, angrily pulls out a dirty canvas bag, and throws down three or
four sovereigns before the seedy Clerk's clerk. The canvas bag is
evidently half-full of money--the gleam of silver and gold is visible
within it. The Bench stay to note this proceeding with an amused
expression on their features. The woman looks at them as bold as brass,
and stalks off with her man.

Half an hour afterwards, two of the magistrates riding away from the
town pass a small tavern on the outskirts. A travelling van is outside,
and from the chimney on its roof thin smoke arises. There is a little
group at the doorway, and among them stands the late prisoner. Oby holds
a foaming tankard in one hand, and touches his battered hat, as the
magistrates go by, with a gesture of sly humility.

CHAPTER IX

LUKE, THE RABBIT CONTRAC