On the extreme simplicity of going to law.

With his right leg resting on his left, with his two thumbs nicely adjusted, and with the four points of his right fingers in delicate contact with the fingers of his left hand, sat Honest Lawyer Prigg, listening to the tale of unutterable woe, as recounted by Farmer Bumpkin.

Sometimes the good man’s eyes looked keenly at the farmer, and sometimes they scanned vacantly the ceiling, where a wandering fly seemed, like Mr. Bumpkin, in search of consolation or redress. Sometimes Mr. Prigg nodded his respectable head and shoulders in token of his comprehension of Mr. Bumpkin’s lucid statement: then he nodded two or three times in succession, implying that the Court was with Mr. Bumpkin, and occasionally he would utter with a soft soothing voice,

“Quite so!”

When he said “quite so,” he parted his fingers, and reunited them with great precision; then he softly tapped them together, closed his eyes, and seemed lost in profound meditation.

Here Mr. Bumpkin paused and stared. Was Mr. Prigg listening?

“Pray proceed,” said the lawyer, “I quite follow you;—never mind about what anybody else had offered you for the pig—the question really is whether you actually sold this pig to Snooks or not—whether the bargain was complete or inchoate.”

Mr. Bumpkin stared again. “I beant much of a scollard, sir,” he observed; “but I’ll take my oath I never sold un t’pig.”

“That is the question,” remarked the lawyer. “You say you did not? Quite so; had this Joe of yours any authority to receive money on your behalf?”

“Devil a bit,” answered Bumpkin.

“Excuse me,” said Mr. Prigg, “I have to put these questions: it is necessary that I should understand where we are: of course, if you did not sell the pig, he had no right whatever to come and take it out of the sty—it was a trespass?”

“That’s what I says,” said Bumpkin; and down went his fist on Mr. Prigg’s table with such vehemence that the solicitor started as though aroused by a shock of dynamite.

“Let us be calm,” said the lawyer, taking some paper from his desk, and carefully examining the nib of a quill pen, “Let me see, I think you said your name was Thomas?”

“That’s it, sir; and so was my father’s afore me.”

“Thomas Bumpkin?”

“I beant ashamed on him.”

And then Mr. Prigg wrote out a document and read it aloud; and Mr. Bumpkin agreeing with it, scratched his name at the bottom—very badly scratched it was, but well enough for Mr. Prigg. This was simply to retain Mr. Prigg as his solicitor in the cause of Bumpkin v. Snooks.

“Quite so, quite so; now let me see; be calm, Mr. Bumpkin, be calm; in all these matters we must never lose our self-possession. You see, I am not excited.”

“Noa,” said Bumpkin; “but then ur dint tak thy pig.”

“Quite true, I can appreciate the position, it was no doubt a gross outrage. Now tell me—this Snooks, as I understand, is the coal-merchant down the village?”

“That’s ur,” said Bumpkin.

“I suppose he’s a man of some property, eh?”

Mr. Bumpkin looked for a few moments without speaking, and then said:

“He wur allays a close-fisted un, and I should reckon have a goodish bit o’ property.”

“Because you know,” remarked the solicitor, “it is highly important, when one wins a case and obtains damages, that the defendant should be in a position to pay them.”

This was the first time that ever the flavour of damages had got into Bumpkin’s mouth; and a very nice flavour it was. To beat Snooks was one thing, a satisfaction; to make him pay was another, a luxury.

“Yes, sir,” he repeated; “I bleeve he ave, I bleeve he ave.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Wull, fust and foremust, I knows he lent a party a matter of a hundred pound, for I witnessed un.”

“Then he hasn’t got that,” said the lawyer.

“Yes ur ave, sir, or how so be as good; for it wur a morgage like, and since then he’ve got the house.”

Mr. Prigg made a note, and asked where the house was.

“It be widder Jackson’s.”

“Indeed; very well.”

“An then there be the bisness.”

“Exactly,” said the lawyer, “horses and carts, weighing machines, and so on?”

“And the house he live in,” said Bumpkin, “I know as ow that longs to him.”

“Very well; I think that will be enough to start with.” Now, Mr. Prigg knew pretty well the position of the respective parties himself; so it was not so much for his own information that he made these inquiries as to infuse into Bumpkin’s mind a notion of the importance of the case.

“Now,” said he, throwing down the pen, “this is a very serious matter, Mr. Bumpkin.”

This was a comfort, and Bumpkin looked agreeably surprised and vastly important.

“A very serious case,” and again the tips of the fingers were brought in contact.

“I spoase we can’t bring un afore jusseses, sir?”

“Well, you see the criminal law is dangerous; you can’t get damages, and you may get an action for malicious prosecution.”

“I think we ought to mak un pay for ’t.”

“That is precisely my own view, but I am totally at a loss to understand the reason of such outrageous conduct on the part of this Snooks. Now don’t be offended, Mr. Bumpkin, if I put a question to you. You know, we lawyers like to search to the bottom of things. I can understand, if you had owed him any money—”

“Owe un money!” exclaimed Bumpkin contemptuously; “why I could buy un out and out.”

“Ah, quite so, quite so; so I should have supposed from what I know of you, Mr. Bumpkin.”

“Lookee ere, sir,” said the farmer; “I bin a ard workin man all my life, paid my way, twenty shillins in the pound, and doant owe a penny as fur as I knows.”

“And if you did, Mr. Bumpkin,” said the lawyer with a good-natured laugh, “I dare say you could pay.”

“Wull, I bleeve there’s no man can axe me for nothing; and thank God, what I’ve got’s my own; and there aint many as got pootier stock nor mine—all good bred uns, Mr. Prigg.”

“Yes, I’ve often heard your cattle praised.”

“He be a blagard if ur says I owed un money.”

“O, dear, Mr. Bumpkin, pray don’t misunderstand me; he did not, that I am aware, allege that he took the pig because you owed him money; and even if you did, he could not legally have done so. Now this is not a mere matter of debt; it’s a very serious case of trespass.”

“Ay; zo ’t be sir; that was my bleef, might jist as wull a tooked baacon out o’ baacon loft.”

“Just the same. Quite so—quite so!”

“And I want thee, Mr. Prigg, to mak un pay for’t—mak un pay, sir; it beant so much th’ pig.”

“Quite so: quite so: that were a very trifling affair, and might be settled in the County Court; but, in fact, it’s not the pig at all, it’s trespass, and you want to make him answerable in damages.”

“That’s it, sir; you’ve got un.”

“I suppose an apology and a return of the pig would not be enough.”

“I’ll make un know he beant everybody,” said Bumpkin.

“Quite so; now what shall we lay the damages at?”

“Wull, sir, as for that, I doant rightly know; if so be he’d pay down, that’s one thing, but it’s my bleef as you might jist as wull try to dror blood out of a stoane as git thic feller to do what’s right.”

“Shall we say a hundred pounds and costs?”

Never did man look more astonished than Bumpkin. A hundred pounds! What a capital thing going to law must be! But, as the reader knows, he was a remarkably discreet man, and never in the course of his dealing committed himself till the final moment. Whenever anybody made him a “bid,” he invariably met the offer with one form of refusal. “Nay, nay; it beant good enough: I bin offered moore.” And this had answered so well, that it came natural to Bumpkin to refuse on all occasions the first offer. It was not to be wondered at then that the question should be regarded in the light of an offer from Snooks himself. Now he could hardly say “I bin bid moore money,” because the case wasn’t in the market; but he could and did say the next best thing to it, namely:—

“I wunt let un goo for that—’t be wuth moore!”

“Very well,” observed Prigg; “so long as we know: we can lay our damages at what we please.”

Now there was great consolation in that. The plaintiff paused and rubbed his chin. “What do thee think, sir?”

“I think if he pays something handsome, and gives us an apology, and pays the costs, I should advise you to take it.”

“As you please, sir; I leaves it to you; I beant a hard man, I hope.”

“Very good; we will see what can be done. I shall bring this action in the Chancery Division.”

“Hem! I’ve eerd tell, sir, that if ever a case gets into that ere Coourt he niver comes out agin.”

“O, that’s all nonsense; there used to be a good deal of truth in that; but the procedure is now so altered that you can do pretty much what you like: this is an age of despatch; you bring your action, and your writ is almost like a cheque payable on demand!”

“Wull, I beant no lawyer, never had nothing to do wi un in my life; but I should like to axe, sir, why thee’ll bring this ere case in Chancery?”

“Good; well, come now, I like to be frank; we shall get more costs?”

Mr. Bumpkin again rubbed his chin. “And do I get em?” he asked.

“Well, they go towards expenses; the other side always pays.”

This was a stroke of reasoning not to be gainsaid. But Mr. Prigg had a further observation to make on the subject, and it was this:

“After the case has gone on up to being ready for trial, and the Judges find that it is a case more fitting to be tried in the Common Law Courts, then an order is made transferring it, that is, sending it out of Chancery to be tried by one of the other Judges.”

“Can’t see un,” said Bumpkin, “I beant much of a scollard, but I tak it thee knows best.”

Mr. Prigg smiled: a beneficent, sympathizing smile.

“I dare say,” he said, “it looks a little mysterious, but we lawyers understand it; so, if you don’t mind, I shall bring it in the Chancery Division in the first instance; and nice and wild the other side will be. I fancy I see the countenance of Snooks’ lawyer.”

This was a good argument, and perfectly satisfactory to the unsophisticated mind of Bumpkin.

“And when,” he asked, “will ur come on, think’ee?”

“O, in due time; everything is done very quickly now—not like it used to be—you’d be surprised, we used to have to wait years—yes, years, sir, before an action could be tried; and now, why bless my soul, you get judgment before you know where you are.”

How true this turned out to be may hereafter appear; but in a dream you never anticipate.

“I shall write at once,” said “Honest Prigg,” “for compensation and an apology; I think I would have an apology.”

“Make un pay—I doant so much keer for the t’other thing; that beant much quonsequence.”

“Quite so—quite so.” And with this observation Mr. Prigg escorted his client to the door.