One day, while court was in session in the little village of Gainesville, the attention of the Judge and bar was attracted by a rather unusual noise at the door. Looking towards that aperture, “his honour” discovered the aforesaid pony and rider deliberately entering the Hall of Justice. This, owing to the fact that the floor of the court house was nearly on a level with the ground, was not difficult. “Mr. Sheriff,” said the Judge, “see who is creating such a disturbance of this court.” “It’s only Uncle Josey and Gin’rel Jackson, Judge,” said the intruder, looking up with a drunken leer, “Jest me an’ the Gin’rel come to see how you an’ the boys is gettin’ along.” “Well, Mr. Sheriff,” said the Judge, totally regardless of the interest manifested in his own and the lawyers’ behalf, by Uncle Josey, “you will please collect a fine of ten dollars from Uncle Josey and the General, for contempt of court.” “Look-a-here, Judge, old feller,” continued Uncle Josey, as he stroked the “Gin’ral’s” mane, “you don’t mean to say it, now do yer? This child hain’t had that much money in a coon’s age, and as for the Gin’ral here, I know he don’t deal in no kind of quine, which he hain’t done, ’cept fodder and corn, for these many years.” “Very well, then, Mr. Sheriff,” continued his honour, “in default of the payment of the fine, you will convey the body of Joseph Johnson to the county jail, there to be detained for the space of twenty-four hours.” “Now, Judge, you ain’t in right down good yearnest, is you?—Uncle Josey hain’t never been put into that there boardin’ house, yet, which he don’t want to be, neither,” appealed the old man, who was apparently too drunk to know whether it was a joke or not. “The sheriff will do his duty, immediately,” was the Judge’s stern reply, who began to tire of the old man’s drunken insolence. Accordingly, Uncle Josey and the “Gin’ral” were marched off towards the county prison, which stood in a retired part of the village. Arriving at the door, the prisoner was commanded by the sheriff to “light.” “Look-a-here, Jess, horse-fly, you ain’t agwine to put yer old Uncle Josey in there, is yer?” “’Bliged to do it, Uncle Josey,” replied the sheriff, “ef I don’t, the old man (the judge) will give me _goss_ when I go back. I hate it powerful, but I must do it.” “But, Jess, couldn’t you manage to let the old man git away? Thar ain’t nobody here to see you. Now do, Jess, you know how I _fit_ for you, in that last run you had ’long er Jim Smith, what like to a beat you for sheriff, which he would a done it, if it hadn’t been for yer Uncle Josey’s influence.” “I know that, Uncle Josey, but thar ain’t no chance. My oath is very pinted against allowin’ anybody to escape. So you must go in, cos thar ain’t no other chance.” “I tell you what it is, Jess, I’m afeared to go in thar. Looks too dark and dismal.” “Thar ain’t nothing in thar to hurt you, Uncle Josey, which thar hain’t been for nigh about six months.”