“My good fellow,” said the Rev. Eli, “you have been most leniently dealt with. I am sorry for you on account of your brother, a most respectable man, who has always set you an admirable example, and—”
“I say,” exclaimed Jock, “this arn’t chutch, is it?”
There was a titter here, but the chairman continued:—
“I will say no more, as you seem in so hardened a frame of mind, only that if you are violent you may be committed for trial.”
“All right,” said the great fellow, between his gritting teeth; “I don’t say no more, only—all right: come along, matey; we can do the three months easy.”
There was a bit of a bustle, and the prisoners were taken off. The rest of the cases were despatched. The carriage called for the chairman, and on the way back it passed the police cart, with the sergeant giving the two poaching prisoners a ride, but each man had his ankle chained to a big ring in the bottom of the vehicle, where they sat face to face, and the sergeant and his man were driving the blackberry pickers to the county gaol.
“What a dreadful-looking man!” said Julia, as in passing Jock Morrison ironically touched his soft felt hat.
“Yes, my dear—poachers,” said the Rev. Eli calmly, as one who felt that he had done his duty to society, and never for a moment dreaming that he had been stirring Fate to play him another bitter turn.