Part 39 (1/2)

”What d'ye mean?” he asked, plainly disconcerted.

”I mean,” said I, ”that the zeal of your office hath eaten you up.”

”What the h.e.l.l does he mean?” he asked, appealing to the company.

”d.a.m.n my bones if I know,” answered the host. ”I've 'eerd parson say sommat like it in church a Sundays. He's one of these 'ere silly scholards.”

”They do say as how Swift Nicks is a scholard,” put in the ostler wisely.

”There's no time for chattering,” said I. ”Take me at once before a justice. That's the law, and you know it. I warn you that any delay will be dangerous. My c.o.c.ksure friend here is already in for actions for a.s.sault, battery, slander, false imprisonment, and the Lord knows what. My gad, sir, I'll give you a roasting at the a.s.sizes. Take me off at once to the nearest magistrate. I'll have the law on you before another hour's out.”

My energy fl.u.s.tered the Londoner, who had sense enough to know the peril of his being wrong, but the fat man, dull as an ox, cheered him on.

”He's Swift Nicks right enough, Master Wicks,” he said. ”Pocket full of pistols, four on 'em; a chap of the right size, a matter of six feet odd; hereabouts, where he is known to be; speaks like a gentleman; and, damme, I saw Swift Nicks myself with my own eyes not two yards off, and that's Swift Nicks' hat or I'm a Dutchman; I know'd it again the minute he walked into the room.”

”d.a.m.n the hat!” cried I heartily enough, but feeling very crestfallen at this telling piece of evidence against me.

The little man s.n.a.t.c.hed it up and looked carefully at the inside of it, a thing I had never done, being wrapped up in its outside.

”There y'are!” he cried triumphantly. ”'S. N. His hat.' What more d'ye want?”

”I want the nearest magistrate,” cried I.

”Well, Mr. Wicks,” said the fat man, ”he can easily have what he wants.

It's only a matter o' two mile to the Squire's.”

”Squire'll welly go off 'is yed,” remarked the host. ”He's that sot on seeing Swift Nicks swing.”

”Then he'll very likely go bail for Mr. Wicks,” said I.

”Will he?” said Mr. Wicks sourly.

”If he don't,” I retorted, ”you'll spend the night in Leicester jail.”

”They do say as 'ow Swift Nicks is a rare plucked 'un,” said the ostler.

”Then they're liars,” said I.

I was handcuffed and put on Sultan, with my feet roped together under his belly. Then we started off, and the whole village, which had dozed in peace with the Highlanders only five hours off, turned out gaily and joyously to see Swift Nicks. The landlord left his guests, and the ostler his horses, to go with us, and at least a score of villagers, mostly women, joined in and made a regular pomp of it. Once or twice we met a man who cried, ”What's up?” and at the response, ”Swift Nicks,” he added himself to the procession and was regaled, as he trudged along, with an account of the affray at the inn. My capture was exceedingly popular, and they gloated to my face over the doom in store for me, wrangling like rooks as to the likeliest spot for my gibbet. The majority fixed it at the Copt Oak, where, as they reminded me with shrill curses, I had murdered poor old Bet o' th' Brew'us for a s.h.i.+lling and sixpence. It was a relief to hear the host shout to Master Wicks, ”Yon's th' Squire's!”

We trooped up to a fair stone house of ancient date with a turret at the tip of each wing. My luck was clean out. The Squire was not yet back home from hunting, for he went out with the hounds every day the scent would lie. He had ridden far, or was belated, or his horse had foundered, and there was no telling, said his ruddy old butler, when he would be back. So the villagers were driven off like cattle, Sultan was stabled, and we five were accommodated in the great hall, for the host and the ostler stayed on the ground that so dangerous a villain as Swift Nicks wanted a strong guard. They put me under the great chimney and sat round me, in a half circle, each man with a loaded pistol in one hand and a jug of ale in the other. The Squire's lady came in and stood afar off examining me, and I saw that she was in deadly fear of me, handcuffed and guarded as I was.

Over an hour crawled by, taking with it my last chance of getting into Derby, with my task accomplished, by six o'clock. What would Margaret think of me? Her obvious pride in the honour the Prince had conferred upon me by selecting me as his personal helper, had been a great delight to me, and now I had failed him and disquieted her. The thought made me rage, and I gave my captors black looks worthy of any tobie-man on the King's highway.

At last relief came in the shape of the Squire's youngest son, a stout lad of some twelve years old, who raced in, rod in hand, and made up to me without a trace of fear. He was in trouble about his rod, having snapped the top joint in unhandily dealing with a fine chub. After some wrangling, I got my hands freed, and set about splicing the joint.

”They do say,” said I mockingly, ”as how Swift Nicks is a good hand at splicing fis.h.i.+ng-rods.”

”I never 'eerd tell of that'n,” said the stolid ostler.