I must be somebody if I knew
Peter Crawley, and now he doubtless bethought him of my short hair.
I must confess if the fellow had taken me at my word I should have
been in as great a funk as he was, but he did not. My challenge was
declined.
* * * * *
A curious incident happened once in the rural district of Saffron
Walden. It is a borough no doubt, but it always seemed to me to be too
small for any grown-up thing, and its name sounded more like a little
flower-bed than anything else. On the occasion of which I speak there
was great excitement in the place because they had got a prisoner--an
event which baffled the experience of the oldest inhabitant.
The Recorder was an elderly barrister, full of pomp and dignity; and,
like many of his brother Recorders, had very seldom a prisoner to
try. You may therefore imagine with what stupendous importance he was
invested when he found that the rural magistrates had committed a
little boy for trial for stealing a _ball of twine_. Think of the
grand jury filing in to be "charged" by this judicial dignitary.
Imagine his charge, his well-chosen sentences in anticipation of
the one to come at the end of the sitting. Think of his eloquent
disquisition on the law of larceny! It was all there!
After the usual proclamation against vice and immorality had been
read, and after the grand jury had duly found a true bill, the next
thing was to find the prisoner and bring him up for trial.
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