Bill's were clad in velveteen coats and drab gaiters, and Tom dangled on his hand a brace of hares bigger and plumper than any hares I had ever set eyes on before. They'd got Mr. Alison for their attorney, and I watched that ferret-faced limb of the law with not a little concern, for he looked so cock-sure of winning his case, when he rose to open it to the magistrates, and they listened with so evident a trust to every word he said, that my heart misgave me. It was a very clear case, said Mr. Alison. The prisoner had been caught in _flagrante delicto_; he was a suspicious character whose antecedents alone where enough to convict him, and he was the ringleader of a notorious gang of pestilent knaves who had too long been suffered to prey upon society. However, it was a true saying that the jug went off to the well, but got broke at last. The prisoner had had many a narrow escape, but now he stood in the dock on a charge supported by the clearest and directest evidence, and society for some years would doubtless be rid, and well rid, of a most dangerous character. The information had been laid by Thomas Bradbury, a gamekeeper residing with his wife and family at Greenfield, but better known as of the Moorcock Inn at Bill's o' Jack's, though in fact that hostelry was kept by his venerable father. Doubtless both father and son were known to their Worships, and they would know them as zealous servants of the law. Theirs was a most necessary and also a most dangerous calling--necessary, for what would England be if the gentry were robbed of their sport, and dangerous because it exposed them to the violence of the lawless Poachers who preyed upon the preserves so much wealth was lavished in maintaining. Sport, gentlemen, was a sacred institution. It had made Englishmen--of the higher classes--what they were and England what it was, and must be ranked in sanctity with Church and State. But that topic he would not enlarge, though it was one very near and dear to his heart, as doubtless it was to the hearts of their Worships (and, indeed, by the looks of them he spoke the truth there), He would not waste the time of the Court by any prolix opening. The facts would speak for themselves and the facts would best appear from the mouths of the unimpeachable witnesses he would place in that box before them. Call Thomas Bradbury. Then Tom o' Bill's stepped heavily into the box, placed the two poor dead hares conspicuously in front of him, kissed the greasy little Testament with a smack, touched his forehead respectfully to the magistrates, and turned an attentive face to the little attorney. "Your name is Thomas Bradbury, and you are a gamekeeper residing at Sidebank on the turnpike road between Greenfield and Bill's o' Jack's?" "Yes, sir." "Your father is William Bradbury, and he keeps the Moorcock Inn at Bill's o' Jake's?" "Yes, sir." "Now, on the afternoon of the 16th inst., were you at the Huddersfield Fair? "Yes, sir. Me an' mi feyther."