Part 40 (1/2)

”What's it matter to us here who's got a crown on his head in London?” he said. ”London-folk care nothing for us, and we care nothing for them. But Swift Nicks does matter. We want him hung. No man about here with any sense bothers about your politics except at election-times, when politics means a belly full of beer and a fist full of guineas for every d.a.m.ned tinker and tallow-chandler in Leicester. But you, or that b.l.o.o.d.y villain Swift Nicks, if you a'nt him, keep us sweating-cold o' nights. To h.e.l.l with your politics! Hang me Swift Nicks!”

The terms of our treaty were that I was to remain peaceably and make a night of it, giving my word to make no attempt to escape or harm anyone.

In the meantime, and at my proper charges, a post was to be sent to fetch Nance Lousely and her father to give evidence on my behalf.

”DEAR GHOSTIE,”--I wrote to her,--”I am in great danger because a red-nosed man vows I am Swift Nicks. I want you and your father to come and prove he's an a.s.s. If you don't I am to be hung on a gibbet at a place called the Copt Oak, and I can't abide gibbets, for they are cold and draughty. So come at once, my brave Nance!--Your friend,

”O. W.”

A groom was fetched and I told him how to get to Job Lousely's. He was well mounted from the Squire's stables and set off. However quickly he did his business, it would be many hours before he could be back. So I settled down to make a night of it.

There was nothing original in the Squire's way of making a night of it.

The parson who had been in at the death and who, during the settlement of my affair, had been busy in the stables, now joined us at dinner. He was but lately come from Cambridge, at which seat of learning the chief books appeared to be Bracken's _Farriery_ and Gibson on the _Diseases of Horses_, with Hoyle's _Whist_ as lighter reading for leisured hours. He was a hard rider, a hard swearer, and a hard drinker, and, after being double j.a.panned, as he called it, by a friendly bishop, had been pitchforked by the Squire into a neighbouring parish of three hundred a year in order that the Squire's dogs and hounds, and the game and poachers on the estate, might have the benefit of his ministrations. He had, however, sense enough to buy good sermons. ”At any rate the women tell me they're good,” explained the Squire. ”I can't say for myself, for Joe's a reasonable c.o.c.k, and always shuts up as soon as I wake up.”

The Bow Street runner, Mr. Wicks, and the red-nosed petty constable of the hundred, who answered to the name of Pinkie Yates, were of the party.

I ate little and drank less, but the others emptied the bottles at a great pace and were soon hot with drink. One brew, which the huntsmen quaffed with much zest, I insisted, out of regard for my stomach, on pa.s.sing round untouched, though the men of law took their share like heroes, and, I doubt not, thought they were for once hob-n.o.bbing with the G.o.ds. The manner of it was thus. The parson drew from his pocket a leg of the fox they had killed that day, and, stinking, filthy, and b.l.o.o.d.y as it was, squeezed and stirred it in a four-handled tyg of claret. In this evil compound the Squire solemnly gave us the huntsman's toast:

”_Horses sound. Dogs hearty, Earth's stopped, and Foxes plenty_.”

The parson then hiccoughed a song for which he should have been put in the stocks, after which Mr. Wicks, with three empty bottles and three knives to stand for the gallows, gave us a vivid account of the turning-off of the famous Captain Suck Ensor, who kicked and twitched for ten minutes before his own claimed him.

It was five o'clock next morning before my courier returned with Nance Lousely and her father. I had gone to sleep in the Squire's elbow-chair before the hall fire, with the zealous thief-takers in attendance, turn and turn about, as sentries over me, fifty guineas being well worth guarding. The butler watched at the door, wakefully anxious to earn the crown I had promised him. The noise he made in unchaining and unbolting the door awakened me, and it warmed my heart to see Nance standing timidly just inside the hall, her hand in her father's, till she spied me, when she broke away and ran up to me.

”You knew I'd come, sir, didn't you?” she said, appealing to me more with her pretty anxious face than by her words.

”Of course, ghostie!” I replied promptly.

”Thank you, sir!” she said, with evident relief. At a trace of doubt in my words or face, she would have broken down.

”Don't be a goose, ghostie,” said I. ”Sit down and get warm! And how are you. Job? Much obliged to you both.”

”We'n ridden main hard to get here, sir. Your mon didna get t'our 'ouse afore one o'clock, an' we wor on the way afore ha'f-past. Gom! We wor that'n. Our Nance nearly bust. Gom, she did that'n.”

”Your Nance is a darling,” said I, stroking her disordered hair.

At my request backed by a promise to turn the crown into half a guinea, the butler got them some breakfast. Fortunately the Squire and the parson were due at a duck-shooting ten miles off by seven o'clock, and so were stirring early. My matter was soon settled. The Squire sat magisterially in his elbow-chair, and Nance and her father told their tale, precisely as I had told it before them. It cleared me and made the thief-catchers look mightily confused and sheepish, and very relieved they were when, as a politic way of staving off awkward questions, I grandly accepted their apologies.

”I knew you weren't Swift Nicks,” said the Squire, ”when I saw you mending my lad's fis.h.i.+ng-rod. Damme, we'll get him though, before we've done.”

He invited me to join him at breakfast, where we were alone for the first time.

”Is it into the fire or into the fender?” he asked meaningly.

I was ready for him and, stopping with the carving knife half-way through a fine ham I was slicing, said, as if amazed, ”Is what into the fire or into the fender?”

”The chestnut,” said he.

”The chestnut!” I retorted.