at have remained on the Bar have amused themselves by
prosecuting one another right and left. The Squire, bless his honest,
lazy, Leigh Huntish face, comes out strong on these occasions. He has
pronounced decisions which, for legal acumen, brilliancy, and
acuteness, would make Daniel Webster, could he hear them, tear his hair
to that extent--from sheer envy--that he would be compelled to have a
wig ever after. But, jesting apart, the Squire's course has been so
fair, candid, and sensible, that he has won golden opinions from all;
and were it not for his insufferable laziness and good nature, he would
have made a most excellent justice of the peace. The prosecuting party
generally "gets judgment," which is about all he _does_ get, though
sometimes the constable is more fortunate, as happened to-day to our
friend W., who, having been detained on the Bar by the rain, got
himself sworn into the above office for the fun of the thing. He
performs his duties with great delight, and is always accompanied by a
guard of honor, consisting of the majority of the men remaining in the
place. He entered the cabin about one hour ago, when the following
spicy conversation took place between him and F., who happened to be
the prosecutor in this day's proceedings.

"Well, old fellow, did you see Big Bill?" eagerly inquired F.

"Yes," is the short and sullen reply.

"And what did you _get_?" continued his questioner.

"I got THIS!" savagely shouts the amateur constable, at the same time
pointing with a grin of rage to a huge swelling on his upper lip,
gleaming with all the colors of the rainbow.

"What did you do then?" was the next meek inquiry.

"Oh, I came away," says our brave young officer of justice. And indeed
it would have been madness to have resisted this delightful Big Bill,
who stands six feet four inches in his stockings, with a corresponding
amount of bone and muscle, and is a star of the first magnitude in
boxing circles. F. saved the creature's life last winter, having
watched with him three nights in succession. He refuses to pay his bill
"'cos he gin him _calumny_ and other pizen doctor's stuff." Of course
poor W. got dreadfully laughed at, though I looked as solemn as
possible while I stayed him with cups of coffee, comforted him with
beefsteaks and onions, and coaxed the wounded upper lip with an
infinite succession of little bits of brown paper drowned in brandy.

I wish that you could see _me_ about these times