These pigeons always come to the edge of a group of people, mindful of the stray grain and peas that fall from the hands of farmers and dealers examining samples on market days.

Presently, two constables come across carrying a heavy, clumsy box between them.

They unlock a door, and take the box upstairs into the hall over the pillars.
After them saunters a seedy man, evidently a clerk, with a rusty black bag; and after him again--for the magistrates' Clerk's clerk must have _his_ clerk--a boy with some leather-bound books.
Some of the loafers touch their hats as a gentleman--a magistrate--rides up the street.

But although the church clock is striking the hour fixed for the sessions to begin he does not come over to the hall upon dismounting in the inn-yard, but quietly strolls away to transact some business with the wine-merchant or the saddler.

There really is not the least hurry.