Gun, powder-flask, tin measure, and bag of shot, with game, placed upon the table.
“And what did the prisoners say when you came upon them by—where did you say, keeper?” said one magistrate.
“Runby Spinney, Sir Joshua, just where the Greenhurst lane crosses the long coppice, Sir Joshua.”
“And what did the prisoners say?” said the chairman stiffly.
“Said they was blackberrying, Sir.”
“Oh!” said the chairman, and he appeared so stern that no one dared laugh, though a young rustic-looking policeman at whom Jock Morrison winked turned red in the face with his efforts to prevent an explosion.
“Did they make any—er—er—resistance, keeper?” said the chairman.
“The big prisoner, sir, said he’d smash my head if I interfered with him.”
“Dear me! A very desperate character,” said Sir Joshua. “And did he?”
“No, Sir Joshua, we was too many for him. There was me, Smith, Duggan, and the two pleecemen, so they give in.”