"Fell, then," said the magistrate, "we'll pring it in a case of murder. Are you all agreedt? Fat says you, Peter Pork?" "Why, I dunna," said Peter, "but I reckon so." "Fat says you, Thomas Pork?" "Why, I dunna; but I go with Peter." "Fat says you, Jacob Musser?" "Fy, the same: but I reckon the Captain mought send us up something to dtrink.--It's a very pretty pody." "Never mind the pody, Jacob. Fat says you, Jack Darpy?" "Why, I'm no so clear in the matter;--I'm ag'in' all hanging." "Fy, that's none on your pusiness," said the magistrate, assuming an air of dignity; "for you see, John, the coroner's jury is not the hanging jury." "Well, Squire," said the nonconformist, "I reckon I know that as well as any body. But, you see, I've had a talk with the quakers on this matter, and I'm coming to think it's ag'in' the law of scriptur' to bring a man to the gallows. And you see, the matter all rests on our shoulders; for if we say murder for our 'quest, why then the grand jury sings the same song for their indictment, and the petty jury just follows suit. It's just like sticking three bricks on an end; if you kick one, why down goes the second, and clack goes t'other. And moresomover, what Squire Affidavy says I stick to: I don't know the man's murdered, not an iota, without some one to swear on black and white." "Fy, take a look at him, John," said the Squire in a heat; "he's deadt, a'n't he? and he has a pig hole in his neck, ha'n't he? and fat more fould you haff? You're always preeding trouble, John Darpy!" "Well, I dunna," said John; "the man mought ha' shot himself; for they say he was a peeler at the bottle, for such a young un; and when folks drinks, there's no saying what'll come of it: it's just as much as saying, 'Clear the course, here goes for the devil!--Squire Affidavy, what do you say to that?" "Hem"--replied the man of law, looking at his elbows, which were somewhat of the whitest, with an attempt at humour, that faded in a moment before a look of sullenness and anger, "I say, that you're a fool, though you stumble upon wisdom now and then by accident. But none of your sly winks and blinks: we all know you have not brain enough for drinking. But stop; we've carried this joke far enough, and the fun is over. Send down stairs for the girl Phoebe Jones: she was on the ground when the shot was fired, and we must take her testimony." "Fy, now I remember, so she fas," muttered the magistrate; but added, with a sigh like the sough of north-wester, "Put it is a great trouple to swear a voman."