Lawyer Quince

"Lawyer Quince" by W.W. Jacobs is a humorous short story that explores the world of a clever and resourceful lawyer, Mr. Quince, who navigates a series of comic misadventures. Set in a seaside town, the narrative showcases Jacobs' signature style of wit and commentary on human folly. As Quince interacts with various eccentric characters, the tale reveals both the absurdities of legal practice and the complexities of human relationships, ultimately offering a delightful blend of humor and insight into human nature.

• Humour
• Short story

								
Lawyer Quince, so called by his neighbours in Little Haven from his
readiness at all times to place at their disposal the legal lore he had
acquired from a few old books while following his useful occupation of
making boots, sat in a kind of wooden hutch at the side of his cottage
plying his trade. The London coach had gone by in a cloud of dust some
three hours before, and since then the wide village street had
slumbered almost undisturbed in the sunshine.

Hearing footsteps and the sound of voices raised in dispute caused him
to look up from his work. Mr. Rose, of Holly Farm, Hogg, the miller,
and one or two neighbours of lesser degree appeared to be in earnest
debate over some point of unusual difficulty.

Lawyer Quince took a pinch of snuff and bent to his work again. Mr.
Rose was one of the very few who openly questioned his legal knowledge,
and his gibes concerning it were only too frequent. Moreover, he had a
taste for practical joking, which to a grave man was sometimes
offensive.

“Well, here he be,” said Mr. Hogg to the farmer, as the group halted in
front of the hutch. “Now ask Lawyer Quince and see whether I ain’t told
you true. I’m willing to abide by what he says.”

Mr. Quince put down his hammer and, brushing a little snuff from his
coat, leaned back in his chair and eyed them with grave confidence.

“It’s like this,” said the farmer. “Young Pascoe has been hanging round
after my girl Celia, though I told her she wasn’t to have nothing to do
with him. Half an hour ago I was going to put my pony in its stable
when I see a young man sitting there waiting.”

“Well?” said Mr. Quince, after a pause.

“He’s there yet,” said the farmer. “I locked him in, and Hogg here says
that I’ve got the right to keep him locked up there as long as I like.
I say it’s agin the law, but Hogg he says no. I say his folks would
come and try to break open my stable, but Hogg says if they do I can
have the law of ’em for damaging my property.”

“So you can,” interposed Mr. Hogg, firmly. “You see whether Lawyer
Quince don’t say I’m right.”

Mr. Quince frowned, and in order to think more deeply closed his eyes.
Taking advantage of this three of his auditors, with remarkable
unanimity, each closed one.

“It’s your stable,” said Mr. Quince, opening his eyes and speaking with
great deliberation, “and you have a right to lock it up when you like.”

“There you are,” said Mr. Hogg; “what did I tell you?”

“If anybody’s there that’s got no business there, that’s his look-out,”
continued Mr. Quince. “You didn’t induce him to go in?”

“Certainly not,” replied the farmer.

“I told him he can keep him there as long as he likes,” said the
jubilant Mr. Hogg, “and pass him in bread and water through the winder;
it’s got bars to it.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Quince, nodding, “he can do that. As for his folks
knocking the place about, if you like to tie up one or two of them
nasty, savage dogs of yours to the stable, well, it’s your stable, and
you can fasten your dogs to it if you like. And you’ve generally got a
man about the yard.”

Mr. Hogg smacked his thigh in ecstasy.

“But—” began the farmer.

“That’s the law,” said the autocratic Mr. Quince, sharply. “O’ course,
if you think you know more about it than I do, I’ve nothing more to
say.”

“I don’t want to do nothing I could get into trouble for,” murmured Mr.
Rose.

“You can’t get into trouble by doing as I tell you,” said the
shoemaker, impatiently. “However, to be quite on the safe side, if I
was in your place I should lose the key.”

“Lose the key?” said the farmer, blankly.

“Lose the key,” repeated the shoemaker, his eyes watering with intense
appreciation of his own resourcefulness. “You can find it any time you
want to, you know. Keep him there till he promises to give up your
daughter, and tell him that as soon as he does you’ll have a hunt for
the key.”

Mr. Rose regarded him with what the shoemaker easily understood to be
speechless admiration.

“I—I’m glad I came to you,” said the farmer, at last.

“You’re welcome,” said the shoemaker, loftily. “I’m always ready to
give advice to them as require it.”

“And good advice it is,” said the smiling Mr. Hogg. “Why don’t you
behave yourself, Joe Garnham?” he demanded, turning fiercely on a
listener.

Mr. Garnham, whose eyes were watering with emotion, attempted to
explain, but, becoming hysterical, thrust a huge red handkerchief to
his mouth and was led away by a friend. Mr. Quince regarded his
departure with mild disdain.

“Little things please little minds,” he remarked.

“So they do,” said Mr. Hogg. “I never thought—What’s the matter with
you, George Askew?”

Mr. Askew, turning his back on him, threw up his hands with a helpless
gesture and followed in the wake of Mr. Garnham. Mr. Hogg appeared to
be about to apologise, and then suddenly altering his mind made a hasty
and unceremonious exit, accompanied by the farmer.

Mr. Quince raised his eyebrows and then, after a long and meditative
pinch of snuff, resumed his work. The sun went down and the light faded
slowly; distant voices sounded close on the still evening air, snatches
of hoarse laughter jarred upon his ears. It was clear that the story of
the imprisoned swain was giving pleasure to Little Haven.

He rose at last from his chair and, stretching his long, gaunt frame,
removed his leather apron, and after a wash at the pump went into the
house. Supper was laid, and he gazed with approval on the home-made
sausage rolls, the piece of cold pork, and the cheese which awaited his
onslaught.

“We won’t wait for Ned,” said Mrs. Quince, as she brought in a jug of
ale and placed it by her husband’s elbow.

Mr. Quince nodded and filled his glass.

“You’ve been giving more advice, I hear,” said Mrs. Quince.

Her husband, who was very busy, nodded again.

“It wouldn’t make no difference to young Pascoe’s chance, anyway,” said
Mrs. Quince, thoughtfully.

Mr. Quince continued his labours. “Why?” he inquired, at last.

His wife smiled and tossed her head.

“Young Pascoe’s no chance against our Ned,” she said, swelling with
maternal pride.

“Eh?” said the shoemaker, laying down his knife and fork. “Our Ned?”

“They are as fond of each other as they can be,” said Mrs. Quince,
“though I don’t suppose Farmer Rose’ll care for it; not but what our
Ned’s as good as he is.”

“Is Ned up there now?” demanded the shoemaker, turning pale, as the
mirthful face of Mr. Garnham suddenly occurred to him.

“Sure to be,” tittered his wife. “And to think o’ poor young Pascoe
shut up in that stable while he’s courting Celia!”

Mr. Quince took up his knife and fork again, but his appetite had gone.
Whoever might be paying attention to Miss Rose at that moment he felt
quite certain that it was not Mr. Ned Quince, and he trembled with
anger as he saw the absurd situation into which the humorous Mr. Rose
had led him. For years Little Haven had accepted his decisions as final

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