Presently, two
constables come across carrying a heavy, clumsy box between them. They
unlock a door, and take the box upstairs into the hall over the pillars.
After them saunters a seedy man, evidently a clerk, with a rusty black
bag; and after him again--for the magistrates' Clerk's clerk must have
_his_ clerk--a boy with some leather-bound books.
Some of the loafers touch their hats as a gentleman--a magistrate--rides
up the street. But although the church clock is striking the hour fixed
for the sessions to begin he does not come over to the hall upon
dismounting in the inn-yard, but quietly strolls away to transact some
business with the wine-merchant or the saddler. There really is not the
least hurry. The Clerk stands in the inn porch calmly enjoying the
September sunshine, and chatting with the landlord. Two or three more
magistrates drive up; presently the chairman strolls over on foot from
his house, which is almost in the town, to the inn, and joins in the
pleasant gossip going on there, of course in a private apartment.
Up in the justice-room the seedy Clerk's clerk is leaning out of the
window and conversing with a man below who has come along with a
barrow-load of vegetables from his allotment. Some boys are spinning
tops under the pillars. On the stone steps that lead up to the hall a
young mother sits nursing her infant; she is waiting to 'swear' the
child.
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