“‘No,’ he says, ‘there’s no more; it’s all gone.’

“’Stop a bit,” says I; ‘that wun’t do, nuther.’

“‘That wun’t do?’ he says.  ‘Wool that do?’ and he ups with the jug and hits me a smack in the mouth, and down I goes clean on the floor; he then falls atop of me and right on the pot he held in his hand, which broke with his fall, bein’ a earthenware jug, and cuts his head, and ‘Sarve him right,’ I hopes your honour’ll say; and the proof of which statement is, sir, that there’s the cut o’ that jug on his forehead plainly visible for anybody to see at this present moment.  Now, sir, what next? for there’s summat else.

“‘Jack,’ says I, ‘I’ll summon you for this assault.’

“‘Yes,’ he says, ’and so’ll I; I’ll have ee afore his Worship Mr. Knox.’

“‘Afore his Worship Mr. Knox?’ says I.  ’And why not afore his Worship the Rev. Mr. Hull?  He’s the gentleman for my money—­a real gentleman as’ll hear reason, and do justice atween man and man.’

“‘What!’ says Jack, with an oath that I ain’t going to repeat afore a clergyman—­’what!’ he says, ‘a d—­d old dromedary like that!’

“‘Dromedary, sir,’ meaning your worship!  Did anybody ever hear such wile words against a clergyman, let alone a magistrate, sir?  And he then has the cheek to come here and ask you to believe him.  ’Old dromedary!’ says he—­’ a d—­d old dromedary.’”

Mr. Hull, the reverend chairman, was naturally very indignant, not that he minded on his own account, as he said—­that was of no consequence—­but a man who could use such foul language was not to be believed on his oath.  He therefore dismissed the summons, and ordered the prosecutor to pay the costs.

I think both my father and uncle still nursed the idea that I was to become the good old-fashioned county attorney, for they perpetually rang in my ears the praises of “our Bench” and “our chairman,” out Bench being by far the biggest thing in Hertfordshire, except when a couple of notables came down to contest the heavy-weight championship or some other noble prize.

For myself, I can truly say I had no ambition at this time beyond earning my bread, for I pretty well knew I had to trust entirely to my own exertions.  The fortunate have many friends, and it is just the fortunate who are best without them.  I had none, and desired none, if they were to advise me against my inclinations.  My term being now expired, for I loyally pursued my studies to the bitter end, my mind was made up, ambition or no ambition, for the Bar or the Stage.

Like most young men, I loved acting, and quite believed I would succeed.  My passion for the stage was encouraged by an old schoolfellow of my father’s when he was at Rugby, for whom I had, as a boy, a great admiration.  I forget whether in after-life I retained it, for we drifted apart, and our divergent ways continued their course without our meeting again.