Part 70 (1/2)

”Villain!” cried he, about to plunge the spear with all his force into his enemy's side, ”you shall----”

The whistle was again heard without.

”Don't you hear that?” cried Jem: ”'Tis Turpin's call.”

”Turpin!” echoed Luke, dropping the point of his weapon. ”Unbar the door, you treacherous rascal, and admit him.”

”Well, say no more about it, Sir Luke,” said Jem, fawningly; ”I knows I owes you my life, and I thank you for it. Take back the lowre. He should not have shown it me--it was that as did all the mischief.”

”Unbar the door, and parley not,” said Luke contemptuously.

Jem complied with pretended alacrity, but real reluctance, casting suspicious glances at Luke as he withdrew the bolts. The door at length being opened, haggard, exhausted, and covered with dust, d.i.c.k Turpin staggered into the hut.

”Well, I am here,” said he, with a hollow laugh. ”I've kept my word--ha, ha! I've been d.a.m.nably put to it; but here I am, ha, ha!” And he sank upon one of the stools.

”We heard you were apprehended,” said Luke. ”I am glad to find the information was false,” added he, glancing angrily at the ferryman.

”Whoever told you that, told you a lie, Sir Luke,” replied d.i.c.k; ”but what are you scowling at, old Charon?--and you, Sir Luke? Why do you glower at each other? Make fast the door--bolt it, Cerberus--right! Now give me a gla.s.s of brandy, and then I'll talk--a b.u.mper--so--another.

What's that I see--a dead man? Old Peter--Alan I mean--has anything happened to him, that he has taken his measure there so quietly?”

”Nothing, I trust,” said Luke, stooping to raise up his grandsire. ”The blow has stunned him.”

”The blow?” repeated Turpin. ”What! there _has_ been a quarrel then? I thought as much from your amiable looks at each other. Come, come, we must have no differences. Give the old earthworm a taste of this--I'll engage it will bring him to fast enough. Ay, rub his temples with it if you'd rather; but it's a better remedy down the gullet--the natural course; and hark ye, Jem, search your crib quickly, and see if you have any _grub_ within it, and any more _bub_ in the cellar: I'm as hungry as a hunter, and as thirsty as a camel.”

_CHAPTER II_

_MAJOR MOWBRAY_

_Mephistopheles._ Out with your toasting iron! Thrust away!

HAYWARD'S _Translation of Faust_.

Conkey Jem went in search of such provisions as his hovel afforded.

Turpin, meantime, lent his a.s.sistance towards the revival of Alan Rookwood; and it was not long before his efforts, united with those of Luke, were successful, and Alan restored to consciousness. He was greatly surprised to find the highwayman had joined them, and expressed an earnest desire to quit the hut as speedily as possible.

”That shall be done forthwith, my dear fellow,” said d.i.c.k. ”But if you had fasted as long as I have done, and gone through a few of my fatigues into the bargain, you would perceive, without difficulty, the propriety of supping before you started. Here comes Old Nosey, with a flitch of bacon and a loaf. Egad, I can scarce wait for the toasting. In my present mood, I could almost devour a grunter in the sty.” Whereupon he applied himself to the loaf, and to a bottle of stout March ale, which Jem placed upon the table, quaffing copious draughts of the latter, while the ferryman employed himself in toasting certain rashers of the flitch upon the hissing embers.

Luke, meanwhile, stalked impatiently about the room. He had laid aside his tridental spear, having first, however, placed a pistol within his breast to be ready for instant service, should occasion demand it, as he could now put little reliance upon the ferryman's fidelity. He glanced with impatience at Turpin, who pursued his meal with steady voracity, worthy of a half-famished soldier; but the highwayman returned no answer to his looks, except such as was conveyed by the incessant clatter of his masticating jaws, during the progress of his, apparently, interminable repast.

”Ready for you in a second, Sir Luke,” said d.i.c.k; ”all right now--capital ale, Charon--strong as Styx--ha, ha!--one other rasher, and I've done. Sorry to keep you--can't conceive how cleverly I put the winkers upon 'em at York, in the dress of a countryman; all owing to old Balty, the patrico, an old pal--ha, ha! My old pals never _nose_ upon me--eh, Nosey--always help one out of the water--always staunch. Here's health to you, old crony.”

Jem returned a sulky response, as he placed the last rasher on the table, which was speedily discussed.

”Poor Bess!” muttered d.i.c.k, as he quaffed off the final gla.s.s of ale.

”Poor la.s.s! we buried her by the roadside, beneath the trees--deep--deep.

Her remains shall never be disturbed. Alas! alas! my bonny Black Bess!

But no matter, her name is yet alive--her deeds will survive her--the trial is over. And now,” continued he, rising from his seat, ”I'm with you. Where are the t.i.ts?”