The Humourous Story of Farmer Bumpkin's Lawsuit Part 14

"Well, thankee, sir, thankee," said the farmer, shaking hands with the youth, and giving him a half-sovereign. "I be proud to know thee." And thus they parted: Horatio returning to his office, and Mr. b.u.mpkin driving home at what is called a "s.h.i.+g-shog" pace, reflecting upon all the events that had transpired during that memorable day.

Pretty much the same as ever went on the things at the farm, and the weeks pa.s.sed by, and the autumn was over, and Christmas Day came and went, and the a.s.sizes came and went, and _b.u.mpkin_ v. _Snooks_ alone in all the world seemed to stand still. One day in the autumn a friend of Mr. Prigg's came and asked the favour of a day's fis.h.i.+ng, which was granted with Mr. b.u.mpkin's usual cordiality. He was not only to fish on that day, but to come whenever he liked, and make the house his "hoame, like." So he came and fished, and partook of the hospitality of the homely but plentiful table, and enjoyed himself as often as he pleased.

He was a most agreeable man, and knew how to talk. Understood a good deal about agriculture and sheep breeding, and quite enjoyed a walk with Mr. b.u.mpkin round the farm. This happened five or six times during the autumn. He was reticent when Mr. b.u.mpkin mentioned the lawsuit, because he knew so little about legal proceedings. Nor could Mr. b.u.mpkin "draw him out" on any point. Nothing could be ascertained concerning him except that he had a place in Yorks.h.i.+re, and was in London on a visit; that he had known Mr. Prigg for a good many years, and always "found him the same." At last, the month of February came, and the long expected letter from Mr. Prigg. b.u.mpkin and Joe were to be in London on the following day, for it was expected they would be in the paper. What a flutter of preparation there was at the farm! b.u.mpkin was eager, Mrs.

b.u.mpkin anxious. She had never liked the lawsuit, but had never once murmured; now she seemed to have a presentiment which she was too wise to express. And she went about her preparations for her husband's leaving with all the courage she could command. It was, however, impossible entirely to repress her feelings, and now and again as she was packing the flannels and worsted stockings, a tear would force its way in spite of all she could do.

Night came, and the fireside was as cosy as ever. But there was a sense of sadness nevertheless. Tim seemed to understand that something was not quite as it should be, for he was restless, and looked up plaintively in his master's face, and went to Joe and put his head in his lap; then turned away and stretched himself out on the hearth, winking his eyes at the fire.

It is always a melancholy effort to "keep up the spirits" when the moment of separation is at hand. One longs for the last shake of the hand and the final good-bye. This was the case at Southwood Farm on this memorable evening. Nothing in the room looked as usual. The pewter plates on the shelf shone indeed, but it was like the smile of a winter sun; it lacked the usual cheery warmth. Even the old clock seemed to feel sad as he ticked out with melancholy monotony the parting moments; and the wind, as it came in heavy gusts and howled round the old chimney, seemed more melancholy than need be under the circ.u.mstances.

"Thee must be careful, Tom," said Mrs. b.u.mpkin; "that Lunnun, as I hear, be a terrible plaace."

"How be un a terrible plaace?" said b.u.mpkin, sarcastically. "I bean't a child, Nancy."

"No, thee bean't a child, Tom; but thee bean't up to Lunnun ways: there be thieves and murderers, and what not."

"Thieves and murderers!"

"And Joe, doan't ee git out o' nights; if anything 'appened to thee, thy old mother 'ud brak her 'art."

"Look ee 'ere," said Joe, "I bean't got nuthin' to lose, so I bean't afeared o' thieves."

"No, but thee might git into trouble, thee might be led away."

"So might thic bull," said Joe; "but I'd like to zee what 'ud become o'

the chap as led un."

"Chap as led un!" said Mrs. b.u.mpkin, laughing.

"I'd gie un a crack o' the canister," said Joe.

"Don't thee git knockin' down, Joe, unless thee be 'bliged," said Mrs.

b.u.mpkin; "keep out o' bad company, and don't stay out o' nights."

"And lookee 'ere, Joe," said b.u.mpkin, "when thee comes afore th'

Counsellor wi' wig on, hold up thee head; look un straight in t' face and spak oop. Thee needn't be afeared t' spak t' truth."

"I bean't afeard," said Joe; "I mind me when old Morris wur at plough, and I was leadin' th' 'orses, Morris says, says he, 'Now then, c.o.c.k, let's see if we can't git a eend this time;' so on we goes, and jist afore I gits the 'orses to eend o' t' field, Dobbin turns, and then, dash my bootons, the tother turns after un, and me tryin' to keep em oop, Dobbin gits his legs over the trace. Well, Morris wur that wild, he says, says he, 'Damme, if yer doan't look sharp, I'll gie thee a crack o'

t' canister wi' this 'ere whippense presny'" (presently).

"Crack o' the canister!" laughed Mrs. b.u.mpkin, "and that's what Morris called thy head, eh?"

This was a capital hit on Joe's part, for it set them thinking of the events of old times, and Joe, seeing the effect of it, ventured upon another anecdote relating to the old carter.

"Thee recollect, master, when that there Mr. Gearns come down to shoot; lor, lor, what a queer un he wur, surely!"

"Couldn't shoot a hit," said b.u.mpkin.

"Not he. Wall, we was carrying wheat, and Morris wur loadin, and jest as we gits the last pitch on t' load, right through th' 'orses legs runds a rat. Gearns wi'out more ado oops wi' his loaded gun and bangs her off right under t' 'orses legs; up jumps th' 'orse, and Morris wur wery nigh tossed head fust into th' yard. Wall, he makes no moore ado, for he didn't keer, gemman or no gemman-didn't Morris-"

"No more ur didn't, Joe," said Mrs. b.u.mpkin.

"He makes no moore ado, but he up and said, 'damme,' he says, 'sir, you might as well a said you was gwine to shoot; you might a had me off and broked my neck.'"

"Haw! haw! haw!" laughed Mr. b.u.mpkin, and "Well done, Morris," said Mrs.

b.u.mpkin.

"Wall," said Joe, "this ere gemman says, 'It wouldn't er bin much loss,'

he says, 'if he had!' 'Damme,' roars Morris, 'it had a bin as much wally to me as yourn, anyhow.'"

They all remembered the story, and even Tim seemed to remember it too, for when they laughed he wagged his tail and laughed with them.

And thus the evening dragged along and bed time came.

In the morning all was in readiness, and the plaintiff with his witness drove away in the gig to the station, where Morris waited to bring the old horse back.

And as the train came into the little country station I awoke.

"I hope," cried my wife, "that Mr. Prigg is a respectable man."

"Respectable," I answered, "I know he is; but whether he is honest is another matter."

"But don't you know?"

"I only know what I dream."

"I have no opinion of him," said she; "nor of that Locust; I believe they are a couple of rogues."

"I should be very sorry to suggest such a thing as that," I answered, "without some proof. Everybody should give credit for the best of motives."

"But what are all these summonses you speak of?"

"O, they are summonses in the action. You may have as many of them as you can invent occasion for. You may go up to the Court of Appeal about twenty times before you try the action, which means about eighty different hearings before Master and Judges."

"But how can a poor man endure that? It's a great shame."

"He can't-he may have a perfectly good cause of action against a rich man or a rich company, and they can utterly ruin him before ever his case can come into Court."

"But will no solicitor take it up for the poor man?"

"Yes, some will, and the only reward they usually get for their pains is to be stigmatized as having brought a speculative action-accused of doing it for the sake of costs; although I have known the most honourable men do it out of pure sympathy for the poor man."

"And so they ought," cried she.

"And I trust," said I, "that hereafter it will be considered honourable to do so. It is quite as honourable, in my judgment, to bring an action when you may never be paid as to bring it when you know you will be."

"Who was the person referred to as 'the man?'"