“My name’s Peter Joyce of Letterbrack, your honour,” said Joyce. “A decent man with a long weak family, and my father was a decent man before me, and it’s no fault of mine that I’m here to-day, and going into court, though there isn’t another gentleman in all Ireland I’d sooner come to than yourself, Mr. Madden, if so be I had to come to anyone. And it’s what I’m druv to, for if I wasn’t----” “What is it?” said Mr. Madden. “Police? Drunk and disorderly?” “It is not,” said Joyce. “Sure I never was took by the police only twice, and them times they wouldn’t have meddled with me only for the spite the sergeant had against me. But he’s gone from the place now, thanks be to God, and the one that came after him wouldn’t touch me.” Peter Joyce sank his voice to a whisper. “It’s how I want to take the law of Patrick Joseph Flanagan,” he said. “Trespass or assault?” said Mr. Madden. He was a man of immense experience. He succeeded in carrying on a large practice because he wasted no time in listening to preliminary explanations of his clients. Most legal actions in the West of Ireland are reducible to trespass or assault. “It’s both the two of them,” said Joyce. Mr. Madden made a note on a sheet of paper before him. Joyce waited until he had finished writing. Then he said slowly: “Trespass and assault and more besides.” Mr. Madden asked no question. He added to the note he had written the words “And abusive language.” Abusive language generally follows trespass and immediately precedes assault. “Now,” said Mr. Madden, “get on with your story and make it as short as you can.” Peter Joyce did his best to make the story short. He succeeded in making it immensely complicated. There was a boundary wall in the story and it had been broken down. There was a heifer calf and a number of young pigs. There was a field of oats trampled and destroyed by the heifer, and a potato patch ruined beyond hope by the pigs. There was a sheep torn by a dog, stones thrown at Mrs. Joyce, language that had defiled the ears of Molly Joyce, an innocent child of twelve years old, and there was the shooting of a gun at Peter himself. Joyce was prepared to swear to every item of the indictment. He did actually swear from time to time, laying his hand solemnly on a large ledger which stood on Mr. Madden’s desk. Mr. Madden listened until he had heard enough. “You haven’t a ghost of a case against Flanagan,” he said. “The judge won’t listen to a story like that. If you take my advice you’ll go straight home and make it up with Flanagan. You’ll simply waste your money if you go into court.” Mr. Madden, it will be seen, was a man of principle. He made his living out of other people’s quarrels, but he gave honest advice to his clients. He was also a man of wide knowledge of West of Ireland farmers. He knew perfectly well that his advice would not be taken.