“Tom,” said one of them, “were you ever on a special jury in a revenue case?”

“No,” replied Tom, “never.  Is there much fun?”

“The devil’s own fun; because if we find for the defendant, he’s sure to give us a splendid feed.  But do you know how we manage when we find that we can’t agree?”

“No.  How is it?”

“Why, you see, when the case is too clear against him, and that to find for him would be too barefaced, we get every man to mark down on a slip of paper the least amount of damages he is disposed to give against him; when they’re all down, we tot them up, and divide by twelve—­“*

     By no means an uncommon proceeding in revenue cases,
     even at the present day.

“Silence,” said another, “till we hear John Dickson’s song.”

The said John Dickson was at the time indulging them with a comic song, which was encored with roars of laughter.

“Hallo!” shouted one of those at the cards, “here’s Jack Brereton has prigged the ace of hearts.”

“Oh, gentlemen,” said Jack, who was a greater knave at the cards than any in the pack, “upon, my honor, gentlemen, you wrong me.”

“There—­he has dropped it,” said another; “look under the table.”

The search was made, and up was lugged the redoubtable ace of hearts from under one of Jack’s feet, who had hoped, by covering it, to escape detection.  Detected, however, he was, and, as they all knew him well, the laughter was loud accordingly, and none of them laughed louder than Jack himself.

“Jack,” said another of them, “let us have a touch of the legerdemain.”

“Gentlemen, attention,” said Jack.  “Will any of you lend me a halfpenny?”

This was immediately supplied to him, and the first thing he did was to stick it on his forehead—­although there had been brass enough there before—­to which it appeared to have been glued; after a space he took it off and placed it in the palm of his right hand, which he closed, and then, extending both his hands, shut, asked those about him in which hand it was.  Of course they all said in the right; but, upon Jack’s opening the said hand, there was no halfpenny there.

In this way they discussed a case of life or death, until another knock came, which “knock” received the same answer as before.

“Faith,” said a powerful-looking farmer from near the town of Boyle—­the very picture of health, “if they don’t soon let us out I’ll get sick.  It’s I that always does the sickness for the jury when we’re kept in too long.”

“Why, then, Billy Bradley,” asked one of them, “how could you, of all men living, sham sickness on a doctor?”

“Because,” said Billy, with a grin, “I’m beginning to feel a divarsion of blood to the head, for want of a beefsteak and a pot o’ porther.  My father and grandfather both died of a divarsion of blood to the head.”

“I rather think,” observed another, “that they died by taking their divarsion at the beefsteak and the pot of porter.”