Part 17 (1/2)
”This beats c.o.c.k-fighting,” said mine host admiringly. He spread himself, happy and conspicuous as a tom-t.i.t on a round of beef, and the crowd, pleasantly antic.i.p.ating mugs of beer later on, urged the Mayor to be up and doing.
”What have you to say for yourself?” said his grocer-s.h.i.+p to me, with a dim and belated idea, perhaps, that I might be interested in the proceedings.
”The beadle's coat is much too large for him,” said I.
”Yes, yes,” he replied hurriedly. ”Samson Salt was a big man and had only had the coat three years when he died, and we couldn't afford a new one for Timothy. Dear me, but this isn't a council meeting, and what's the beadle's coat got to do with horse-stealing?”
”As much as I have,” I replied gravely.
”Yow've 'ad enough, my lad,” said the host, ”to last y'r the rest of y'r life. The next 'oss you rides'll be foaled of an acorn. Let Timothy put him in clink, Master Mayor, and come and have a noggin of the real thing.
Gom, I'm that dry my belly'll be thinking my throat's cut.”
”Arrest this man, Timothy Tomkins, and put him in jail till I can take due order for his trial.”
Timothy turned up the sleeves of his coat, and arrested me by placing his hand on my arm, and flouris.h.i.+ng the bra.s.s crown in my face.
”Don't hurt me, Timothy,” I said. ”I'll come like a lamb, and I'll go slow lest you should tumble over the tail of your coat.”
”If you say another word about the blasted coat I'll split your head open,” was his angry reply. It was evidently a sore topic with him and a familiar one with his frugal townsmen, for some man in the crowd cried out, ”'Tinna big enough for the missis, be it, Timothy?” And while the peppery little beadle's eyes were searching the j.a.per out, another added, ”More's the pity, for 'er's a bit of a light-skirt.” At this there was a roar of laughter, so I saved the frenzied officer further trouble by saying, ”Come along, Timothy. Let's go to jail.”
On the Mayor's orders, mine host despoiled me of the sergeant's tuck, and Timothy marched me off to the jail, the rabble following, as full of chatter as a nest of magpies. The jail was a small stone building, standing, like the town hall, in the middle of the street. Arrived there, Timothy thrust me into an ill-lit dirty hole below the level of the street, locked the door behind me, and left me to my reflections.
The only furniture of the den was a rude bench. A nap would do me good, so, after a good pull at Kate's precious cordial, I curled up on the bench and in a few minutes was sound asleep. And in my sleep I dreamed that two blue stars were twinkling at me through a golden cloud.
CHAPTER XII
THE GUEST-ROOM OF THE ”RISING SUN”
A wisp of cloud, a long trail of s.h.i.+mmering gold, broke loose, swept with the touch of softest silk across my cheek, and half awakened me. I was lazily and sleepily regretting that such caresses only came in dreams, when I was brought sharply back to full life by a ripple of hearty laughter.
”Gloat on!” said I complacently.
”I knew you'd slip some time or other. Gloat! Of course I shall gloat.”
And she laughed again. I should have borne it easily enough, coming from her, under any circ.u.mstances, but there was one circ.u.mstance which made it a pure joy. The white hands were busy with her unruly yellow hair, and I was so far gone foolward that I was in some sort hopeful that they were imprisoning the wisp of golden cloud that had awakened me. I bitterly regretted that I was not as nimble at waking as Jack. He would be sleeping like a leg of mutton one second and, at the touch of a feather, as wide awake as a weasel the next. I took time--it was the Latin rubbish c.u.mbering my brain, he used to say--or I might have made sure.
Mistress Margaret was perched on the edge of my bench. She seemed in no hurry to move, and I could not get up till she did, so I lay still, cradling my head in my hands, and looked contentedly at her. It was now so gloomy that I had evidently been asleep some time.
”I knew you'd slip,” she repeated with great zest. ”All men do. And I'm glad you slipped, for it proved you human. I was getting quite overawed by the terrible precision with which you did exactly the right thing at exactly the right time. It made me feel so very small and inferior, and no woman likes that. It's not nice.”
”Or natural,” said I.
”I see you're unmistakably awake, sir!” was the tart reply. She rose and took short turns up and down the cell and went on: ”But why slip into jail, Master Wheatman? Why did you not tell father who you were and what you had done for me?”
”And so prove at once to the authorities in the town that he was not what he pretended to be!”
”Ho!” she said, and stopped short.
”Our idea was, I think, to free the Colonel, if we could.”