At last there is a slight stir as a group is seen to emerge from the inn, and the magistrates take their seats.  An elderly man who sits by the chair cocks his felt hat on the back of his head:  the clerical magistrate very tenderly places his beaver in safety on the broad mantelpiece, that no irreverent sleeve may ruffle its gloss:  several others who rarely do more than nod assent range themselves on the flanks; one younger man who looks as if he understood horses pulls out his toothpick.  The chairman, stout and gouty, seizes a quill and sternly looks over the list of cases.

Half a dozen summonses for non-payment of rates come first; then a dispute between a farmer and his man.  After this the young mother ‘swears’ her child; and, indeed, there is some very hard swearing here on both sides.  A wrangle between two women—­neighbours—­who accuse each other of assault, and scream and chatter their loudest, comes next.  Before they decide it, the Bench retire, and are absent a long time.

By degrees a buzz arises, till the justice-room is as noisy as a market.  Suddenly the door of the private room opens, and the Clerk comes out; instantly the buzz subsides, and in the silence those who are nearest catch something about the odds and the St. Leger, and an anything but magisterial roar of laughter.  The chairman appears, rigidly compressing his features, and begins to deliver his sentence before he can sit down, but the solemn effect is much marred by the passing of a steam ploughing engine.  The audience, too, tend away towards the windows to see whose engine it is.

‘Silence!’ cries the Clerk, who has himself been looking out of window; the shuffling of feet ceases, and it is found that after this long consultation the Bench have dismissed both charges.  The next case on the list is poaching; and at the call of his name one of the gipsy-looking men advances, and is ordered to stand before that part of the table which by consent represents the bar.

‘Oby Bottleton,’ says the Clerk, half reading, half extemporizing, and shuffling his papers to conceal certain slips of technicality; ’you are charged with trespassing in pursuit of game at Essant Hill—­that you did use a wire on the estate—­on land in the occupation of Johnson.’—­’It’s a lie!’ cries a good-looking, dark-complexioned woman, who has come up behind the defendant (the whilome navvy), and carries a child so wrapped in a shawl as to be invisible.  ’Silence! or you’ll have to go outside the court.  Mr. Dalton Dessant will leave the Bench during the hearing of this case.’  Mr. Dalton Dessant, one of the silent magistrates already alluded to, bows to the chairman, and wriggles his chair back about two feet from the table.  There he gazes at the ceiling.  He is one of the trustees of the Essant Hill property; and the Bench are very careful to consult public opinion in L——­ borough.

The first witness is an assistant keeper:  the head keeper stands behind him—­a fine man, still upright and hearty-looking, but evidently at the beginning of the vale of years; he holds his hat in his hand; the sunlight falls through the casement on his worn velveteen jacket.  The assistant, with the aid of a few questions from the Clerk, gives his evidence very clear and fairly.  ’I saw the defendant’s van go down the lane,’ he says: