There is pretty sure to be a pettifogging practitioner prowling about--some rascally scribe who has been dismissed from the public offices for pilfering and extorting too openly--and he is always ready to whisper to the peasant that he should appeal.

The peasant knows that the decision is just, but he is easily persuaded that by appealing to the Monthly Sessions he gets another chance in the lottery, and may perhaps draw a prize.

He lets the rascally scribe, therefore, prepare an appeal for him, and I receive an invitation to attend the Session of Justices in the district town on a certain day.
"It is a good five-and-thirty miles to the district town, as you know, but I get up early, and arrive at eleven o'clock, the hour stated in the official notice.

A crowd of peasants are hanging about the door of the court, but the only official present is the porter.

I enquire of him when my case is likely to come on, and receive the laconic answer, 'How should I know ?' After half an hour the secretary arrives.