“Hartley,” replied Spavin, “we do not wish to refuse either Sir William or you in such a matter as this; but the fact is, M’Clutchy is right.  This is at bottom a party matter—­a political matter, and you know it is.”

“No, sir; on my own part and on Sir William’s I disclaim any such knowledge.”

“You know, Hartley, you are canvassing the county.”

“Yes, but what has that to do with these; men or their affairs?”

“What—­why you know that if we ignore the Bills against them, they will be out and ready to vote for you at the forthcoming election.”

Hartley looked at him with surprise but said nothing.

“Now,” he proceeded, “I will tell you what we will do.  If you and Sir William pledge your words, as men of honor, that you will not accept the votes of these men, the matter you wish shall be managed.”

Sir William started to his feet.

“Great God,” said he, “is it not monstrous that an oath of secrecy should bind us to conceal these inquiries?”

“It is monstrous, Sir William,” replied his friend; “I do believe there is not such, a scene of shameless and hardened corruption on earth, as a Grand Jury Room at the present day.”

This, however, they said rather aside to each other.

“No, sir,” replied Hartley to the last proposal, “neither I nor Sir William shall enter into any such shameful compromise.  I felt perfectly satisfied of the slight chance of justice which these poor men had, and will have from a jury so composed as theirs I know will be; and that was the reason why I did not hesitate to try, if I could, with any effect, save them from what I now perceive is designed for them—­a political punishment independent of crime.”

“Never mind,” said Sir William, taking him aside, “never mind, Hartley; we will be able to defeat them yet.  I shall send for the prosecuting parties; get them to withdraw proceedings, and immediately fight it out in my lawn or stable-yard.”

After a great deal of similar squabbling and negotiation, the gentleman at length got through the criminal calendar for the county, and with still more startling honesty and disinterestedness, entered upon the transactions of its fiscal business.  Beaker, whenever he took no part in the discussions that accompanied the settlement of each question, sat reading a newspaper to the air of the Boyne Water, which he whistled from habit in a low manner that was scarcely audible, unless to some one who felt anxious to derive amusement, as several did, from the originality of the performance.

“Gentlemen,” said the secretary, “here is a list of the presentments.  The first is—­For two miles and a quarter of a new road, running from George Ganderwell’s house at the Crooked Commons, out along Pat Donnellan’s little farm of the Stripe, through which it runs longitudinally; then across Jemmy league’s meadow, over the Muffin Burn, then through widow Doran’s garden, bisecting Darby M’Lorrinan’s three acre field, afterwards entering the Glebe, and passing close to the lodge of the Rev. Phineas Lucre’s avenue.”