And spend our honest earnings in a frisk.
The infamous "new set," who robbed every night, cannot command our sympathy; they were too pushful. William Davis, however, belonged to no set. He was complete in himself; and if he too robbed without ceasing, he had those eighteen children of his to support. It was near the London end of the Oxford Road that the following adventure took place: at none other than the village of Hillingdon, near Uxbridge.
It seems, then, that the "Golden Farmer," dressed in appropriately rustic style, overtook near Gerrard's Cross a certain Squire Broughton, a barrister of the Middle Temple, and entered into conversation with him. When he learned the profession of this chance acquaintance, he pretended to be on his way to London to advise with a solicitor, and, expressing himself as fortunate in meeting one learned in the law, asked him if he could recommend counsel. Broughton, scenting business, bespoke for himself, and the "Golden Farmer," spinning a cock-and-a-bull story of some neighbour's cattle breaking into his fields and doing a vast amount of mischief, sought his opinion.
"It is very actionable," said the lawyer, "being Damage Fesant."
"Damage Fesant?" asked the highwayman. "What's that, pray, sir?"
The lawyer, with much show of learning, duly expounded the matter; and so, as evening drew in, they came to the "Red Lion," Hillingdon, discussing the Law of Trespass, the extent to which the farmer was probably damnified, and the pros and cons of the whole bogus affair.
Passing a very pleasant night at the "Red Lion," they set out together the next morning, still talking law.
"If I may be so bold as to ask you, sir," said the Golden Farmer, "what is that you call Trover and Conversion?"
"Why," said the lawyer, "that is easily explained. It is an action against one who has found any property, and, refusing to deliver on demand, converts it to his own use."
They were now on Hillingdon Heath, a lonely place, not yet lined with mean houses and paltry shops, and still to wait a matter of two hundred years before Mr. Whiteley's factory and stable-yards were built beside the road.