Brother Scotton was a Cowfold man, tall and thin, superintendent of the Sunday-school, and to a considerable extent independent of village custom. He was not only an auctioneer, but a land surveyor; he also valued furniture, and when there were any houses to be let, drew up agreements, made inventories, and had even been known to prepare leases. There was always, therefore, a legal flavour about him, and he prided himself on his distant professional relationship to full-blown attorneyhood. It was tacitly understood in Cowfold that his opinion in certain cases was at least equal to that of Mortimer, Wake, Collins & Mortimer who acted as solicitors for half the county. Mr. Scotton, too, represented Cowfold urban intelligence as against agricultural rusticity; and another point in his favour was, that he had an office—no shop—with a wire blind in the window with the words, “Scotton, Land Agent, Auctioneer, and Appraiser,” painted on it. On Mr. Broad’s present appeal for his verdict, he put himself in a meditative attitude, stretched out his legs to their full length, threw his head back, took his lower lip in his left hand, pulled up his legs again, bent forward, put his hands on his knees, and looked sideways at Mr. Broad. “I suppose that Mr. Allen and his son will have the charges communicated to them, Mr. Broad, and be summoned to attend the meeting?” “What do you say, Brother Bushel?” “Don’t see no use in it. All very well them lawyers”—a snap at Scotton—“come and argyfy—I hate argyfying, I do myself—never seed no good on it. Get rid of a man—I do. ‘Sickly sheep infects the flock and pisons all the rest.’” These last words formed part of a hymn of which Brother Bushel was fond. “What do you say, Brother Wainwright?” Brother Wainwright, although he could do nothing but agree with Brother Bushel, and never did anything but agree with him, preferred to make a show of reflection. He again looked in his hat, shut his mouth fast; again scratched his head; again shook it a little, and with another jerk, as if announcing a conclusion at which he had arrived with great certainty, but after a severe mental effort, he said: “Oi go with Brother Bushel, _Oi_ do.” “Well,” said Scotton, extending his legs again and gazing at the ceiling, “I must nevertheless be permitted to adhere—” “Adhere,” interrupted Bushel. “What’s the use of talking like that? You always adhere—what for, I should like to know?” Scotton went on with dignity, not noticing the attack. “Adhere, I was about to say, Mr. Broad, to my previously expressed opinion. I am not at all sure that the Allens have not a legal status, and that an action would not lie if we proceeded without due formalities. Tanner’s Lane, you must recollect, is in a peculiar position, and there is an endowment.”