It was vacation time. Baptist's son, a law student at Poitiers and a prospective notary, was cheerfully loading dung into a cart (no one dreamed of calling upon him for enlightenment), while the unlettered father learnedly dispensed the law. In front of the solemn arbitrator, and at a respectful distance from him, a man stood waiting open mouthed for the solicited verdict. With a kindly wave of the hand, Master Baptist motioned to me to wait until the audience should be closed. I therefore remained where I was, and watched the plaintiff--a big, gray-headed fellow who was mechanically twisting between his hands the greasy crown of a brimless hat. "You are sure that all you have told me is true?" Master Baptist was saying, and I could see that he was inclined to apply his epithet of "blockhead" to the absent party in the dispute. "I have told you everything just as it is," answered the other. "Then you may tell Michael that he is a blockhead. Be sure you tell him so, will you?" "Yes, Master Baptist, I will tell him this very evening. But what if he says it isn't so?" "If he answers that it isn't so, no later than to-morrow you will have notice served on him." The idea of sending his adversary a stamped document seemed to fill the plaintiff with keen joy. "I surely will serve notice on him!" he gleefully exclaimed. Then, scratching his head: "But suppose he won't have notice served on him, what then?" At these words Master Baptist rose on a gust of excitement. I am not aware what his idea was of a man "who will not have notice served on him." But the case manifestly appeared to him out of all measure horrific. An agonized silence followed. Then the storm burst. "If he refuses to have notice served on him," thundered Master Baptist, "you may take your two hoofs and give him a couple of swift kicks in the shins." Everyone heaved a sigh of relief. The point of law was solved. The plaintiff, his spirit forever at rest, vigorously fell upon his judge's hand and pressed it, along with what was left of his hat. "That's it! That's it! My two hoofs--I will not fail!" As for me, I was filled with admiration at the point chosen for giving full force to the arguments of jurisprudence--the part of the leg where, just under the skin, the tibia presents a collection of nervous fibres which a nimble wooden shoe can crush against the bone, is certainly a well-chosen spot, and calculated to give effectiveness to the energy of the opposing party. The white wine was brought. The student of law left his dung heap to come and clink glasses. "All the same," said the good client, dropping into his chair, "I should like to know a question for which Master Baptist would have no answer." "Oh, well," replied the judge, modestly, "one sees so many things. That is how one learns." XIV THE BULLFINCH AND THE MAKER OF WOODEN SHOES