In spite of all warnings, Joe takes his own part, not to be persuaded on one side or the other—affecting scene between Mr. Bumpkin and his old servant.

“Whatever can that there shoutin’ be for, Mrs. Oldtimes—they be terrible noisy.”

“O,” said the landlady, “somebody else has listed.”

“I hope it beant that silly Joe. I warned un two or three times agin thic feller.”

“There have been several to-night,” said the landlady, who had scarcely yet recovered from the insinuations against the character of her house.

“How does thee know thic, my dear lady?”

“O, because Miss Prettyface have been in and out sewin’ the colours on all the evening, that’s all. Sergeant Goodtale be the best recrootin’ sergeant ever come into a town—he’d list his own father!”

“Would ur, now?” said Bumpkin. “Beant thee afeard o’ thy husband bein’ took?”

Mrs. Oldtimes shrieked with laughter, and said she wished he would list Tom, for he wasn’t any good except to sit in the chimney corner and smoke and drink from morning to night.

“And keep up th’ Army,” growled the husband

“Ha, keep up the Army, indeed,” said Mrs. Oldtimes; “you do your share in that way, I grant.”

Now it was quite manifest that that last cheer from the taproom was the herald of the company’s departure. There was a great scuffling and stamping of feet as of a general clearing out, and many “good nights.” Then the big manly voice of the Sergeant said: “Nine o’clock, lads; nine o’clock; don’t oversleep yourselves; we shall have chops at eight. What d’ye say to that, Mrs. Oldtimes?”

“As you please, Sergeant; but there’s a nice piece of ham, if any would like that.”

“Ha!” said the Sergeant; “now, how many would like ham?”

“I’se for a chop,” said Joe, working his mouth as if he would get it in training.

“Right,” said the Sergeant, “we’ll see about breakfast in the morning. But you know, Mrs. Oldtimes, we like to start with a good foundation.”

And with three cheers for the Sergeant the recruits left the house: all except Joe, who occupied his old room.

After they were gone, and while Mr. Bumpkin was confidentially conversing with the landlord in the chimney corner, he was suddenly aroused by the indomitable Joe bursting into the room and performing a kind of dance or jig, the streamers, meanwhile, in his hat, flowing and flaunting in the most audaciously military manner.

“Halloa! halloa! zounds! What be th’ meaning o’ all this? Why, Joe! Joe! thee’s never done it, lad! O dear! dear!”

There were the colours as plain as possible in Joe’s hat, and there was a wild unmeaning look in his eyes. It seemed already as if the old intimacy between him and his master were at an end. His memory was more a thing of the future than the past: he recollected the mutton chops that were to come. And I verily believe it was brightened by the dawn of new hopes and aspirations. There was an awakening sense of individuality. Hitherto he had been the property of another: he had now exercised the right of ownership over himself; and although that act had transferred him to another master, it had seemed to give him temporary freedom, and to have conferred upon him a new existence.

Man is, I suppose, what his mind is, and Joe’s mind was as completely changed as if he had been born into a different sphere. The moth comes out of the grub, the gay Hussar out of the dull ploughman.

“Why, Joe, Joe,” said his old master. “Thee’s never gone an’ listed, has thee, Joe?”

“Lookee ’ere, maister,” said the recruit, taking off his hat and spreading out the colours—“Thee sees these here, maister?”

“Thee beant such a fool, Joe, I knows thee beant—thee’s been well brought oop—and I knows thee beant gwine to leave I and goo for a soger!”

“I be listed, maister.”

“Never!” exclaimed Mr. Bumpkin. “I wunt b’lieve it, Joe.”

“Then thee must do tother thing, maister. I tellee I be listed; now, what’s thee think o’ that?”

“That thee be a fool,” said Mr. Bumpkin, angrily; “thee be a silly-brained—.”

“Stop a bit, maister, no moore o’ that. I beant thy sarvant now. I be a Queen’s man—I be in the Queen’s sarvice.”

“A pooty Queen’s man thee be, surely. Why look at thic hair all down over thy face, and thee be as red as a poppy.”

Now I perceived that although neither master nor man was in such a state as could be described as “intoxicated,” yet both were in that semi-beatific condition which may be called sentimental.

“Lookee ’ere, maister,” continued Joe.

“And lookee here,” said Mr. Bumpkin, “didn’t I come out to thee two or three times, and call thee out and tell ’ee to tak’ heed to thic soger feller, for he wur up to no good? Did I Joe, or did I not?”

“Thee did, maister.”

“Well, an’ now look where thee be; he’ve regler took thee in, thee silly fool.”

“No, he beant; for he wouldn’t ’ave I at fust, and told I to goo and ax my mither. No ses I, I’ll goo to the divil afore I be gwine to ax mither. I beant a child, I ses.”

“But thee’s fond o’ thy poor old mither, Joe; I knows thee be, and sends her a shillin’ a week out o’ thy wages; don’t thee, Joe?”

This was an awkward thrust, and pricked the lad in his most sensitive part. His under-lip drooped, his mouth twitched, and his eyes glistened. He was silent.

“Where’ll thy poor old mither get a shilling a week from noo, Joe? That’s what I wants to know.”

Joe drew his sleeve over his face, but bore up bravely withal. He wasn’t going to cry, not he.

“Thee beest a silly feller to leave a good ooame and nine shillin’ a week to goo a sogerin; and when thee was out o’ work, there were allays a place for thee, Joe, at the fireside: now, warnt there, Joe?”

“Lookee ’ere, maister, I be for betterin’ myself.”

“Betterin’ thyself? who put that into thy silly pate? thic sergeant, I bleeve.”

“So ur did; not by anything ur said, but to see un wi beef steaks and ingons for supper, while I doan’t ’ave a mouthful o’ mate once a week, and work like a oarse.”

“Poor silly feller—O dear, dear! whatever wool I tell Nancy and thy poor mither. What redgimen be thee in, Joe?”

“Hooroars!”

“Hooroars! hoo-devils!” and I perceived that Mr. Bumpkin’s eyes began to glisten as he more and more realized the fact that Joe was no more to him—“thee manest the oosors, thee silly feller; a pooty oosor thee’ll make!”

“I tellee what,” said Joe, whose pride was now touched, “Maister Sergeant said I wur the finest made chap he ever see.”

“That’s ow ur gulled thee, Joe.”

“Noa didn’t; I went o’ my own free will. No man should persuade I—trust Joe for thic: couldn’t persuade I to goo, nor yet not to goo.”

“That’s right,” chimed in Miss Prettyface, with her sweet little voice.

“And thee sewed the colours on; didn’t thee, Miss?”

“I did,” answered the young lady.

“Joe,” said Mr. Bumpkin, “I be mortal sorry for thee; what’ll I do wirout thy evidence? Lawyer Prigg say thee’s the most wallible witness for I.”

“Lookee ’ere, maister, ere we bin ’anging about for weeks and weeks and no forrerder so far as I can see. When thy case’ll come on I don’t bleeve no man can tell; but whensomdever thee wants Joe, all thee’ve got to do is to write to the Queen, and she’ll gie I leave.”

“O thee silly, igerant ass!” said Mr. Bumpkin; “I can’t help saying it, Joe—the Queen doan’t gie leave, it be the kernel. I know zummut o’ sogerin, thee see; I were in th’ militia farty year agoo: but spoase thee be away—abraird? How be I to get at thee then?”

“Ha! if I be away in furren parts, and thy case be in the list, I doant zee—”

“Thee silly feller, thee’ll ha to goo fightin’ may be.”

“Well,” said Joe, “I loikes fightin’.”

“Thee loikes fightin’! what’s thee know about fightin’? never fit anything in thy life but thic boar-pig, when he got I down in the yard. O, Joe, I can’t bear the thought o thee goin’.”

“Noa, but Maister Sergeant says thee jist snicks off the ’eads of the enemy like snickin’ off the tops o’ beans.”

“Yes, but ow if thee gets thine snicked off?”

“Well, if mine be snicked off, it wunt be no use to I, and I doan’t care who has un when I ha’ done wi un: anybody’s welcome as thinks he can do better with un than I, or ’as moore right to un.”

“Joe, Joe, whatever’ll them there pigs do wirout thee, and thic there bull ’ll goo out of his mind—he wur mighty fond o’ thee, Joe—thee couldst do anything wi un: couldn’t ur, Joe?”

“Ha!” said the recruit; “that there bull ud foller I about anywhere, and so ur would Missis.”

“Then there be Polly!”

“Ha, that there Polly, she cocked her noase at I, maister, becos she thought I worn’t good enough; but wait till she sees me in my cloase; she wunt cock her noase at I then, I’ll warrant.”

“Well, Joe, as thee maks thy bed so thee must lie on un, lad. I wish thee well, Joe.”

“Never wronged thee, did I, maister?”

“Never; no, never.” And at this point master and man shook hands affectionately.

“Gie my love to thic bull,” said Joe. “I shall come down as soon as evir I can: I wish they’d let me bring my oarse.”

“Joe, thee ha’ had too much to drink, I know thee has; and didn’t I warn thee, Joe? Thee can’t say I didn’t warn thee.”

“Thee did, maister, I’ll allays say it; thee warned I well—but lor that there stuff as the Sergeant had, it jist shoots through thee and livins thee oop for all the world as if thee got a young ooman in thee arms in a dancin’ booth at the fair.”

“Ha, Joe, it were drink done it.”

“Noa, noa, never!—good-night, maister, and God bless thee—thee been a good maister, and I been a good sarvant. I shall allays think o’ thee and Missis, too.”

Here I saw that Mr. Bumpkin, what with his feelings and what with his gin-and-water, was well nigh overcome with emotion. Nor was it to be wondered at; he was in London a stranger, waiting for a trial with a neighbour, with whom for years he had been on friendly terms; his hard savings were fast disappearing; his stock and furniture were mortgaged; some of it had been sold, and his principal witness and faithful servant was now gone for a soldier. In addition to all this, poor Mr. Bumpkin could not help recalling the happiness of his past life, his early struggles, his rigid self-denial, his pleasure as the modest savings accumulated—not so much occasioned by the sordid desire of wealth, as the nobler wish to be independent. Then there was Mrs. Bumpkin, who naturally crossed his mind at this miserable moment in his existence—at home by herself—faithful, hardworking woman, who believed not only in her husband’s wisdom, but in his luck. She had never liked this going to law, and would much rather have given Snooks the pig than it should have come about; yet she could not help believing that her husband must be right come what may. What would she think of Joe’s leaving them in this way? All this passed through the shallow mind of the farmer as he prepared for bed. And there was no getting away from his thoughts, try as he would. As he lay on his bed there passed before his mind the old farm-house, with its elm tree; and the barnyard, newly littered down with the sweet smelling fodder; the orchard blossoms smiling in the morning sunshine; the pigs routing through the straw; the excited ducks and the swifter fowls rushing towards Mrs. Bumpkin as she came out to shake the tablecloth; the sleek and shining cows; the meadows dotted all over with yellow buttercups; the stately bull feeding in the distance by himself; the lazy stream that pursued its even course without a quarrel or a lawsuit; all these, and a thousand other remembrances of home, passed before the excited and somewhat distempered vision of the farmer on this unhappy night. Had he been a criminal waiting his trial he could not have been more wretched. At length he endeavoured to console himself by thinking of Snooks: tried to believe that victory over that ill-disposed person would repay the trouble and anxiety it cost him to achieve. But no, not even revenge was sweet under his present circumstances. It is always an apple of ashes at the best; but, weighed now against the comforts and happiness of a peaceful life, it was worse than ashes—it was poison.

* * * * *

Here I awoke.

“Now,” said my wife, “is it not just as I told you? I knew that artful Sergeant would enlist poor stupid Joe?”

“O,” quoth I, “have I been talking again?”

“More than ever; and I am very sorry Joe has deserted his kind master. I am afraid now he will lose his case.”

“I am not concerned about that at present; my work is but to dream, not to prophesy events. I hope Mr. Bumpkin will win, but nothing is so uncertain as the Law.”

“And why should that be? Law should be as certain as the Multiplication Table.”

“Ah,” sighed I, “but—”

“A man who brings an action must be right or wrong,” interrupted my wife.

“Yes,” said I, “and sometimes he’s both; and one judge will take one view of his case—his conduct out of Court, and his demeanour in—while another judge will take another; why, I have known a man lose his case through having a wart upon his nose.”

“Gracious!” exclaimed my wife, “is it possible?”

“Yes,” quoth I; “and another through having a twitch in his eye. Then you may have a foolish jury, who take a prejudice against a man. For instance, if a lawyer brings an action, he can seldom get justice before a common jury; and so if he be sued. A blue ribbon man on the jury will be almost sure to carry his extreme virtue to the border of injustice against a publican. Masters decide against workmen, and so on.”

“Well, Mr. Bumpkin is not a lawyer, or a publican, or a blue ribbon man, so I hope he’ll win.”

“I don’t hope anything about it,” I replied. “I shall note down what takes place; I don’t care who wins.”

“When will his case at the Old Bailey come on? I think that’s the term you use.”

“It will be tried next week.”

“He is sure to punish that wicked thief who stole his watch.”

“One would think so: much will depend upon the way Mr. Bumpkin gives his evidence; much on the way in which the thief is defended; a good deal on the ability of the Counsel for the Prosecution; and very much on the class of man they get in the jury box.”

“But the case is so clear.”

“Yes, to us who know all about it; but you have to make it clear to the jury.”

“There’s the watch found upon the man. Why, dear me, what can be clearer or plainer than that?”

“True; that’s Mr. Bumpkin’s evidence.”

“And Mr. Bumpkin saw him take it.”

“That’s Bumpkin again.”

“Then Mr. O’Rapley was with him.”

“Did you not hear that he is not to be called; the Don doesn’t want to be seen in the affair.”

“Well, I feel certain he will win. I shall not believe in trial by jury if they let that man off.”

“You don’t know what a trial at the Old Bailey or Quarter Sessions is. I don’t mean at the Old Bailey before a real Common Law judge, but a Chancery judge. I once heard a counsel, who was prosecuting a man for passing bad money, interrupt a recorder in his summing up, and ask him to tell the jury there was evidence of seven bad florins having been found in the prisoner’s boot. As guilty knowledge was the gist of the offence, this seemed somewhat important. The learned young judge, turning to the jury, said, in a hesitating manner, ‘Well, really, gentlemen, I don’t know whether that will affect your judgment in any way; there is the evidence, and you may consider it if you please.’”

“One more thing I should like to ask.”

“By all means.”

“Why can’t they get Mr. Bumpkin’s case tried?”

“Because there is no system. In the County Court, where a judge tries three times as many cases in a day as any Superior judge, cases are tried nearly always on the day they are set down for. At the Criminal Courts, where every case is at least as important as any Civil case, everyone gets tried without unnecessary delay. In the Common Law Courts it’s very much like hunt the slipper—you hardly ever know which Court the case is in for five minutes together. Then they sit one day and not another, to the incalculable expense of the suitors, who may come up from Devonshire to-night, and, after waiting a week, go back and return again to town at the end of the following month.”

“But, now that O’Rapley has taken the matter up, is there not some hope?”

“Well, he seems to have as much power as anyone.”

“Then I hope he’ll exert it; for it’s a shame that this poor man should be kept waiting about so long. I quite feel for him: there really ought not to be so much delay in the administration of justice.”

“A dilatory administration of justice amounts too often to a denial of it altogether. It always increases the expense, and often results in absolute ruin.”

“I wonder men don’t appoint someone when they fell out to arbitrate between them.”

“They often do, and too frequently, after all the expense of getting ready for trial has been incurred, the case is at last sent to the still more costly tribunal called a reference. Many matters cannot be tried by a jury, but many can be that are not; one side clamouring for a reference in order to postpone the inevitable result; the other often obliged to submit and be defeated by mere lapse of time.”

“It seems an endless sort of business.”

“Not quite; the measure of it is too frequently the length of the purse on the one side or the other. A Railway Company, who has been cast in damages for £1,000, can soon wear out a poor plaintiff. One of the greatest evils of modern litigation is the frequency with which new trials are granted.”

“Lawyers,” said my wife, “are not apparently good men of business.”

“They are not organizers.”

“It wants such a man as General Wolseley.”

“Precisely.” And here I felt the usual drowsiness which the subject invariably produces. So I dreamed again.