Suddenly there was a squeaking of another kind distinguishable from all others—­it was the squeaking of Sunday boots.  In the country no boots are considered Sunday boots unless they squeak.  At all events, that was the case in Derbyshire at the time I write of.

The noise proceeded from a heavy farmer, a juror-in-waiting, who was allowed to cross from one side of the court to the other for change of air.  His endeavour to suppress the noise of his boots only seemed to cause them the greater irritation.  There was a universal titter as the crowd looked up to see what line the Judge would take.

Sir Henry reproved quietly, and just as the farmer, who was prancing like an elephant, had got well in front of the Bench, he said,—­

“If that gentleman desires to perambulate this court, he had better take off his boots.”

The gravity of the situation was disturbed, but that of the farmer remained, unhappily for him, for, with one foot planted firmly on the ground, and the other poised between heaven and earth, he was afraid to let it come down, and there he stood.  “We will wait,” said the Judge, “until that gentleman has got to the door which leads into the street.”  The juryman, Toole told us afterwards, was delighted, for he escaped for the whole Assize.

Although there was much laughter, Toole knew his position and dignity too well to join in it; but he did what any respectable citizen would be expected to do in the circumstances—­tried to suppress it, yet made such faces in the attempt that the whole house came down in volleys.  But now he was resolved to set matters right, and prevent any further repetition of unseemly conduct.  The way he did so is worthy of note.  He took a pen, dipped it in the ink, and then, spreading his elbows out as one in great authority, and duly impressed with the dignity of the situation, wrote these words on a sheet of paper, which had the royal arms in the centre, his tongue meanwhile seeming to imitate the motion of his pen:  “I have had my eye on you for a long time past, and if I see you laugh again I will send you to prison.  Be warned in time.”

“Just hand that,” said he, giving it to a javelin-man, “to the gentleman there in the green blouse and red hair.”

The paper was stuck into the slit of the tapering fishing-rod-like instrument, and placed under the nose of the man who had been laughing.  It was some time before he could believe his eyes, but a thrust or two of the stick acted like a pair of spectacles, and convinced him it was intended for his perusal.  The effect was instantaneous, and he handed the document to his wife.  It was interesting to watch the face of Toole, suffused with good-humour and yet preserving its elastic dignity, in contrast with that of the farmer, which was almost white with terror as they interchanged furtive glances for the next half-hour.  However, it all ended happily, for the man never laughed again.  Toole was invited to dine at the Judge’s dinner, but being himself on circuit, and not at liberty till eleven, when he took supper, an invitation to “look in” was accepted instead, if it were not too late.