It was in the country, at the last Quarter Sessions, a case of theft.
James Bailey, in the employ of Samuel Nichols, a fishmonger, was
charged with stealing certain trusses of hay and bushels of corn. The
jury had retired to consider their verdict.
"Of course," observed the foreman, who had seated himself at the head
of the table, "we've only come out here as a matter of form. There's
no doubt that the young scamp did it."
William Baker, leaning towards him, shading his hand with his mouth,
whispered, with the evident intention of addressing him in strictest
confidence, "I say guilty!"
Some of the jurymen were standing about the room talking to one
another audibly on subjects which had not the slightest connection
with the case they were supposed to be considering.
"What I want," said Slater, the butcher of Offley, to old George
Parkes of Wormald's Farm, "is a calf--a nice one--just about prime."
With his heavy hand old Parkes nursed his stubbly chin.
"Ah!" he reflected. "I haven't got nothing, not just now, I haven't.
Might have in about a month."