The bailiff, a gentleman who, if ever he is accused of crime, will not
find his face plead for him much, broke open the door and began to throw
out the furniture on the heap before the door.
Here are the items: One
iron pot, one rusty tin pail, two delf bowls, - I noticed them
particularly, for they rolled down the dungheap on the side where I
stood, - one rheumatic chest, one rickety table, one armful of
disreputable straw, and one ragged coverlet. This was supposed to be the
bed, for I saw no bedstead; there was no chair, no stool, or seat of any
kind. The sub-sheriff with the bailiff's assistance fastened the door
with a padlock. He handed the agent a tuft of grass as giving him
possession, and the eviction was over.
The agent - a large-featured man - seemed undecided as to whether he would
view the transaction in a humorous light or as a scene where he was
chief sufferer. He came forward and offered some rambling remarks
addressed to nobody in particular. He drew our attention to the
condition of the roof which needed renewing, to the fields that were
uncropped. This was certainly shiftless, but when he mentioned that the
man had gone to England "in the scarcity" to look for work, and was
lying sick in an English hospital, we did not see how he could help it.
He told us how bad the man was; how he pitied his wife, who was, he
said, worse than himself.
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