In close proximity to the court-house stood a well-known inn, bearing the sign of the “Shoulder of Mutton,” and to this establishment Mr. Slapperton bent his steps. He was a man who courted publicity, and, if it was attainable, popularity also. He was a great talker, an adept at laying down the law, and he felt that he cut what he called a respectable figure in the court, and refreshment after his arduous duties was absolutely requisite; besides, he had one or two clients to meet at the “Shoulder of Mutton.”
Although his conduct had been very reprehensible and pugnacious while in court, there were many who admired what they were pleased to term his “pluck,” and upon entering the public room several of its inmates rose from their seats and shook him warmly by the hand.
“So, Measter Slapperton,” cried a broad-shouldered grazier, “you warn’t a goin’ to let the big wigs ha’ it all their own way.”
“There are two sides to an argument, my friend,” returned the lawyer.
“An yourn be the roight side, I s’pose,” cried a voice from the further end of the room.
“Well, I hope so. That remains to be proved,” answered Slapperton, making the best of his way towards an ante-room, in which the dinner he had ordered was about to be served. Here two of his clients awaited him.
After he had received their instructions, and devoured his substantial repast, he returned to the public room, which was filled with well-to-do agriculturists.
Mr. Slapperton seated himself, sipped his port wine, and lighted his cigar. He felt that he was the “observed of all observers,” and this flattered the legal gentleman’s vanity.
There was a sort of running fire of observations on the all-absorbing topic.
One farmer, more pertinacious than the rest, turned towards the attorney, and said—