The court-room was not more dismal than court-rooms usually are.  When I visited it on my little pilgrimage, undertaken a few months ago, it had been repainted and the woodwork grained to represent oak.  Even so, it was not cheering.

At the upper end, under one of the windows, were ranged five seats on a dais, with a long baize-covered table before them.  Then, on a lower level, stood the clerk’s and solicitors’ table, fenced by a rail from the vulgar crowd who pressed in, hot and excited, to see the criminals and hear justice done.  There was a case arising from an ancient family feud, exploded at last into crime; one lady had thrown a clog at another as the last repartee in a little dialogue held at street doors; the clog had been well aimed, and the victim appeared now with a very large white bandage under her bonnet, to give her testimony.  This swelled the crowd beyond its usual proportions, as both ladies were well known in society.

The General was a kindly-looking old man (Frank recognized his name as soon as he heard it that morning, though he had never met him before) and conversed cheerily with his brother magistrates as they took their seats.  The Rector was—­well, like other rectors, and the Squire like other squires.

* * * * *

It was a quarter to twelve before the ladies’ claims were adjusted.  They were both admonished in a paternal kind of way, and sent about their business, since there was disputed evidence as to whether or not the lady with the bandage had provoked the attack, not only by her language, but by throwing a banana-skin at the lady without the bandage.  They were well talked to, their husbands were bidden to keep them in order, and they departed, both a little crestfallen, to discuss the whole matter over a pint of beer.

There was a little shifting about in court; a policeman, looking curiously human without his helmet, pushed forward from the door and took his place by the little barrier.  The magistrates and the clerk and the inspector all conferred a little together, and after an order or two, the door near the back of the court leading from the police-cells opened, and Frank stepped forward into the dock, followed by another policeman who clicked the barrier behind the prisoner and stood, waiting, like Rhadamanthus.  Through the hedge of the front row of the crowd peered the faces of Gertie and the Major.

We need not bother with the preliminaries—­in fact, I forget how they ran—­Frank gave his name of Frank Gregory, his age as twenty-two years, his occupation as casual laborer, and his domicile as no fixed abode.

The charge was read to him.  It was to the effect that he, on the night of Tuesday, the twenty-third instant, had in the village (whose name I choose to forget, if I ever knew it), seized from Maggie Cooper, aged nine years, a tin of preserved salmon, with intent to steal.  The question put to the prisoner was:  Did he or did he not plead guilty?