Mayor.  Mr Chantrey?

Harris.  On his way, sir.

Mayor.  I’ve had some awkward things to deal with in my time, ’Arris, but this is just about the [Sniffs] limit.

Harris.  Most uncomfortable, Sir; most uncomfortable!

Mayor.  Put a book on the chair, ’Arris; I like to sit ’igh.

     Harris puts a volume of Eneyclopaedia on the Mayor’s chair behind
     the bureau.

[Deeply] Our fellow-magistrate!  A family man!  In my shoes next year.  I suppose he won’t be, now.  You can’t keep these things dark.

Harris.  I’ve warned Martin, sir, to use the utmost discretion.  Here’s
Mr Chantrey.

     By the door Left, a pleasant and comely gentleman has entered,
     dressed with indefinable rightness in shooting clothes.

Mayor.  Ah, Chantrey!

Chantrey.  How de do, Mr Mayor? [Nodding to Harris] This is extraordinarily unpleasant.

     The Mayor nods.

What on earth’s he been doing?

Harris.  Assaulting one of his own daughters with a stick; and resisting the police.

Chantrey. [With a low whistle] Daughter!  Charity begins at home.

Harris.  There’s a black eye.

Mayor.  Whose?

Harris.  The constable’s.

Chantrey.  How did the police come into it?

Harris.  I don’t know, sir.  The worst of it is he’s been at the police station since four o’clock yesterday.  The Superintendent’s away, and Martin never will take responsibility.

Chantrey.  By George! he will be mad.  John Builder’s a choleric fellow.

Mayor. [Nodding] He is.  ’Ot temper, and an ’igh sense of duty.

Harris.  There’s one other charge, Mr Mayor—­poaching.  I told them to keep that back till after.

Chantrey.  Oh, well, we’ll make short work of that.  I want to get off by eleven, Harris.  I shall be late for the first drive anyway.  John Builder!  I say, Mayor—­but for the grace of God, there go we!

Mayor.  Harris, go out and bring them in yourself; don’t let the servants—­

Harris goes out Left.  The Mayor takes the upper chair behind the bureau, sitting rather higher because of the book than Chantrey, who takes the lower.  Now that they are in the seats of justice, a sort of reticence falls on them, as if they were afraid of giving away their attitudes of mind to some unseen presence.

Mayor. [Suddenly] H’m!

Chantrey.  Touch of frost.  Birds ought to come well to the guns—­no wind.  I like these October days.

Mayor.  I think I ’ear them.  H’m.