‘That’s all as I got to say,’ continues the defendant.  ’I never seed no such things afore; and if he hadn’t come I should have 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 CONTRACTOR:  THE BROOK-PATH

The waggon-track leading to the Upper Woods almost always presented something of interest, and often of beauty.  The solitude of the place seemed to have attracted flowers and ferns as well as wild animals and birds.  For though flowers have no power of motion, yet seeds have a negative choice and lie dormant where they do not find a kindly welcome.  But those carried hither by the birds or winds took root and flourished, secure from the rude ploughshare or the sharp scythe.