go to his
solicitor at once, or he would very soon have made up his mind to say no
more about it. So off Mr Jones trotted to his lawyer; that is to say,
his pony trotted, carrying Mr Jones in the little chaise, in which was
a carefully tied-up bundle containing the blackened and damaged suit of
clothes, which looked worse than ever by the time he reached the town,
for the trousers had communicated a vast amount of their filth to the
waistcoat and shirt-front, not forgetting to administer their odour at
the same time. When Mr Jones arrived at the lawyer's he found him at
home, and was soon closeted with him in his mouldy room, all amongst the
dust, papers, parchments, and tin boxes; and then and there Mr Jones
told his tale, and finished by drawing out the black garments, for there
was very little white to be seen on the trousers.

"But you did not tell me where the pitfall was made," said Mr De
Vellum, the solicitor.

"Made, sir?" said Mr Jones excitedly; "why, in that corner piece of
land, where the road makes the sharp turn, on the other side of the
village."

"What, where the finger-post stands at the corner?"

"To be sure," said Mr Jones; "the very place."

"Well, but," said Mr De Vellum, "that's the piece Mr Inglis bought at
the sale last year, when I bid for you."

"Just so," said Mr Jones; "I was walking across it, as I have done
hundreds of times before."

"Ah!" said Mr De Vellum, "but it has been enclosed, and you know, my
dear sir, you were trespassing. Let me order in a glass of wine," he
continued, for Mr Jones had luckily come for advice to a sensible man;
"let me order in a glass of wine, and then I'll give you my advice."

The wine was brought in, and then Mr Jones received his advice, which
cost him six shillings and eightpence, but would have been cheap at a
guinea, for the advice was to go home and take no more notice of the
matter.

Mr Jones was quite cool when he heard the solicitor's opinion; and it
was so much in agreement with his own, that he immediately shook hands,
said "good-day," and made the best of his way home.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

CATCHING TARTARS.

Mr Jones used to have a man, who was a jobbing gardener, come once a
week "to put him a bit straight," as the man called it; and this
gardener used sometimes to meet old Sam at the Red Lion, when they would
have a pint of beer together, and compare cabbages and gooseberries;
talk about peas and plums; and relate how man