CHAPTER XXIII
HOW GEORGE POTTER CIRCUMVENTED THE PREVENTIVES
Since that dim, far-distant day when pious hands first raised Alfriston Cross, it has endured much by stress of weather and the passing of so very many years. In its shadow may have stood Godwyn the great Jarl, and his feoffman Aelfric; about it lusty Saxon ceorls bartered and trafficked; past it may have reeled some of the bloody wrack of Harold’s army, desperate men weary from the fatal strife at Senlac. Here has it stood through the centuries, lashed by rain and wind, or drowsing in the sun, while England waxed great and powerful. And as it doubtless was once the place where Aelfric’s ceorls and villeins bartered and chatted, so has it been a familiar spot for lounging confabulation ever since, and has propped the backs of “all sorts and conditions of men” through countless generations.
And of all this untold host surely never was there a back so suggestive of conscious innocence, of gently-assertive rectitude and of guileful guilelessness as the broad back of Mr. George Potter as he leaned there this summer’s eve in murmurous, monosyllabic converse with Master Tom Pursglove, the Tanner.
“Couldn’t nowise be no better, Jarge!” remarked Mr. Pursglove.
“Nohow!” responded Mr. Potter, his limpid gaze upon a gathering bank of clouds to windward.
“Black daark ’twill be, Jarge, an’ a risin’ wind t’ kiver the tramp o’ the ponies ’ooves.”
“Aye!”
“Yonder comes Godby at last, an’ along wi’ Joe Muddle, Jarge.”
“I sees ’em.”
“They’ll ’ave been round givin’ ‘the word,’ I reckon?”
“They ’ave, Tom.”
Here Messrs. Godby and Muddle sauntered up and presently there were four stalwart backs against the old cross.
“What be the tale, lads?” inquired Mr. Potter.
“Fourteen, Jarge!” quoth Mr. Godby, cutting a quid of tobacco.
“’Leven!” said Mr. Muddle, tapping a large, horn snuff-box.
“Which du mak’ thirty-seven on us, all told,” added Mr. Pursglove, snuffing with Mr. Muddle.
“Ah!” nodded Mr. Potter; and so fell a ruminative silence.
“Fine night, Jarge, ’twill be?” opined Mr. Muddle at last.
“Sh’uldn’t wonder, Joe,” admitted Mr. Potter.
“But I do ’ear as the coastguard be doubled!” quoth Mr. Godby.
“True, John,” nodded Mr. Potter. “They be! Likewise the bozzlers be out!”
“An’ Will Comfort tol’ me as ’e seen sojers, a-marching out o’ Brighthelmstone ’s marnin’, Jarge,” said Mr. Muddle.
“Let ’em march!” murmured Mr. Potter.
“Ah,” quoth Mr. Pursglove, “Jarge’ll sarcumwent ’em some’ow, same as ’e done afore ... ’twas tubs ’arf-full o’ watter, buoyed very keerful off Burling Gap, las’ time ... coastguard a-haulin’ of ’em in, tur’ble busy, an’ us a-runnin’ the stuff at Cuckmere! Sarcumwentin’s the word. What d’you say, Jarge?”
“’Ogs,” quoth Mr. Potter in somewhat louder tone, his mild gaze still uplift heavenward, “’ogs, Tom, takes as much knowin’ as an ’ooman—’specially sows! There was Peter Bunkie’s gurt sow, you’ll mind, as never littered less’n eleven, suddenly took it into ’er ’ead to starve—wouldn’t eat naun. Peter, ’e done arl as ever man could for ’er, but ’tweren’t no manner o’ good. Me an’ Peter ’ticed an’ cogged ’er wi’ arl kinds o’ fother from rum-an’-milk, loo’-warm, to some stuff in a bottle as Peter ’ad from the ’poth’cary the time ’is leg was s’bad, but she’d ’ave naun, not she—turned up ’er nose, ’er did, an’ being just as contrairy as any ’ooman, closed ’er eyes an’ went an’ died. The neighbours arl guv’ it their ’pinion as she was took off by a information, but I b’liv’ as she was a-grizzlin’ over summat as nobody knowed nothin’ about ’cept ’er own self, d’ye see? Good evenin’, Mus’ Sturton, sir; ’ere be Potter a-tellin’ ’bout Peter Bunkie’s sow an’ ’ere be you—a-bobbin’ up that onexpected-like——”
“Look ye here, George Potter,” cried Mr. Sturton in his peremptory fashion, big chin out-thrust; “look now, and mark me——”
“Potter be a-lookin’, sir! An’—talkin’ o’ marks, ’ow’s your pore eye now, Mr. Sturton, sir?”
It was during Mr. Sturton’s rejoinder, a long and eloquent denunciation of Mr. Potter, ending with a comprehensive condemnation of his eyes, limbs, lights, body and soul, that Sir John rode into the village, the gloomy Robert at his heels, and unnoticed by any one, pulled up in the shade of a tree whose widespreading branches afforded a pleasing and kindly shade.
“Lord, Mus’ Sturton, sir,” quoth Mr. Potter, “’eavens know as I doan’t begridge nobody nothing, but I’d gi’e summat for your gift o’ speech ... so easy-like ... sech curses! So ’eart-felt——”
“I’ll see ye hung or transported yet for the rogue y’are, George Potter!”
“I ’opes not, sir——”
“Hold y’r tongue!”
“Don’t be ’arsh, Mr. Sturton, sir——”
“We know ye for a poachin’, smugglin’ rascal——”
“Poachin’? Smugglin’?... Wot—me?” quoth Mr. Potter in tones of pained surprise. “Mus’ Sturton, if ever you catches Potter a-doin’ one or t’other, I ’opes as you’ll mak’ an’ example of ’im.”
“That’s what we’re here for—look behind ye!” cried Mr. Sturton triumphantly. “Are ye there, Oxham?”
“All ready, Sturton!” boomed a jovial voice, and out from an adjacent twitten stepped five brawny fellows headed by a large, loud man who bore himself with a jaunty truculence and wore his three-cornered hat cocked at a defiant angle. At sight of whom, Sir John frowned slightly: beholding which portent the corporal’s gloom was lifted from him, and, freeing his feet from the stirrups, he prepared for action sudden and swift.
“Why, good-evening, Mus’ Oxham!” said Mr. Potter serenely. “An’ ’ow might Lord Sayle be a-gettin’ along wi’ his wounded arm?”
Mr. Oxham slapped coat-skirts with his riding-whip and smiled unpleasantly.
“Well an’ hearty enough to attend to you, I reckon,” he answered. “So are ye a-coming along with us quiet or no?”
“But—wheer to, sir?”
“To my Lord Sayle, for sure!”
“On what account, sir?”
“Poaching,” cried Mr. Sturton. “Poaching in the first place, and smuggling in the second, and for being an insolent, shiftless, masterless rogue in the third——”
“And in the fourth place,” smiled Mr. Oxham, seeming bigger and louder than ever, “because my lord wants ye! An’ that’s enough, I reckon!”
“Aye,” nodded Mr. Potter, “an’ where be your warrant, sir?”
“Never you trouble for that, Potter! My lord wants ye. Are ye comin’ quiet or no?”
“But this bean’t no kind o’ justice, sirs——”
“Never you trouble about justice, Potter. You can talk o’ that to his lordship. Now, are ye comin’ quiet or no?”
“Quiet!” answered Mr. Potter; “but you’ll be s’kind as to allow me a drink o’ ale first?”
“Not by no manner o’ means!” smiled Mr. Oxham, planting himself before his captive. “You are comin’ along with us, and you’re a-comin’—now!”
“I think not!” said a somewhat high, resonant voice, and, riding from behind the tree, Sir John reined in his horse and sat looking at the group, his chin tilted imperiously, his eyes quick and keen.
“And who,” demanded the large Mr. Oxham, smiling and slapping coat-skirts again—“who the devil are you?”
“Nobody, Oxham,” answered Mr. Sturton. “A no-account youngster as I’ve turned out o’ ‘The Dering Arms’ ... knocked him into the dik’, I did, last time we met——”
“And my name is Derwent!” added Sir John. “And I will not suffer you to drag this man away—now or at any other time.”
Mr. Oxham boomed derisive laughter and flourished his whip for the benefit of the gathering crowd that pressed ever nearer.
“Oh ... you won’t, hey?” he demanded.
“No,” answered Sir John. “And—look’ee, fellow, next time you desire to laugh, turn away—your gaping mouth offends me!”
“Why—why, damme!” stammered Mr. Oxham, staring. “Offend you, is it? Ecod, I’ll do more than offend ye if ye doan’t tak’ yourself off, and sharp’s the word!”
“Aha!” exclaimed Sir John. “The vulgar rogue actually dares to threaten!”
“Do ye tak’ yourself out o’ my way or doan’t ye?” shouted Mr. Oxham, brandishing his whip.
“I do not!” answered Sir John, and with a motion of slender hands, lifted the flaps of his holsters, discovering the butts of two serviceable pistols at his saddle.
“Ho—murder, is it?” exclaimed Mr. Oxham, falling back a step.
“Bob, should it be necessary, you will leave the shooting to me.”
“I prefer my riding-crop, sir!” answered the Corporal happily.
“And now,” continued Sir John, his eyes very quick and watchful, “Mr. Oxham, Mr. Sturton and gentlemen all, listen to me! I will not permit Mr. Potter to be apprehended in this outrageous fashion for the following cogent and excellent reasons, namely: first, because ’tis against the law; second, because I myself share Mr. Potter’s very natural aversion to my Lord Sayle’s company; and, thirdly, because I regard Mr. Potter in the light of a friend and, as a Man o’ Sentiment, I feel the bonds of friendship very sacred.... How say ye, gentlemen?”
“You’m right, sir! Right you be!” cried a voice.
“Indeed, we are all with you!” added a second voice, and Mr. Pym, the painter, appeared, hatless and with a long-hafted prawning-net in his hand. “The man Sayle has tyrannised hereabouts too long!”
“Aye, that ’e ’ave! That ’e ’ave!” cried others, and the crowd surged nearer with an angry muttering, insomuch that Mr. Oxham flourished his whip and scowled, while his satellites, for all their brawn, began to grow uneasy.
“At him, Oxham!” cried Mr. Sturton. “Pull him from his horse; he won’t dare to shoot!”
“Try!” quoth Sir John.
“Aye, come on, if ye will!” added Mr. Pym, brandishing his heavy-hafted net.
Here was a moment’s silence, and then Mr. Potter spoke:
“Thank ye heartily, friends an’ neighbours—and you most of arl, Mus’ Derwent, sir, but it bean’t no manner o’ good a-muckin’ yourself up arl-along-on-account-of poor Potter’s affairs, not nohow. There bean’t no man can’t nowise help poor Potter except Potter himself, I rackon, and, sir—Potter be agoin’ to try!”
As he uttered the last word Mr. Potter leapt, brawny fist a-swing with behind it all the weight, strength and impetus of powerful body; and, felled by that resistless blow, the large Mr. Oxham, for all his size, rolled helpless upon the roadway, while over his prostrate form leapt the fugitive and disappeared through the open doorway of ‘The Market Cross Inn,’ but with Sturton and divers others of Oxham’s men close upon his heels.
Next instant Sir John had plucked forth his pistols, dismounted and, entering the inn, beheld Sturton and his fellows staring around them and upon each other in speechless, wondering dismay, for save for themselves the place was empty; Mr. Potter, it seemed, had vanished into thin air.
It was a proportionate, fair-sized room with sanded floor, beamed ceiling and a wide hearth, where burned a cheery fire screened by a huge, high-backed settle.
“Muster Sturton, sir,” quoth one man, glancing uneasily about, “I don’t like this, blind me if I do.... A man as wanishes afore a man’s werry eyes ain’t nat’ral, an’ I don’t loike it.”
“No more don’t I,” added a second. “One moment theer ’e was, plain to see, the next ’e ducks be’ind the settle yonder—you seen ’im duck, Sir—an’ then ... well ... ’e ain’t!”
“Hold y’r tongues!” boomed Mr. Oxham, striding forward at this juncture, cherishing bruised face with one hand, whip brandished in the other. “You, Sturton, where is he? What’s come o’ the rogue?”
“Aye—what?” answered Sturton, his gaze wandering. “I was close on him when he slipped behind this here settle, and then—well, he ain’t here now, Oxham! And I swear he never reached door!”
“But, damme,” roared Mr. Oxham, fetching the settle a resounding blow with his whip, “he must be ’ereabouts somewhere, man!”
“Aye, but—where?”
“Skulking in some hole or corner——”
“Why, then—find him, Oxham!”
Hereupon Mr. Oxham roared for Peter Bunkle, the landlord; and after some while Mr. Bunkle condescended to become visible, a shortish, broad-shouldered man whose sturdy middle was swathed in snowy apron and whose eyes were round and wide with innocent inquiry; to whom Mr. Oxham, with much whip-flourishing, set forth the tale of Mr. Potter’s so sudden disappearance, demanding instant elucidation thereof under pain of dire penalties to all and sundry.
“What, Jarge Potter vanished again, says you?” inquired Mr. Bunkle, faintly interested. “Well, wot o’ that—Lord, is this arl? Why, folks be allus a-disappearin’ ’ereabouts—specially Jarge Potter; it do be gettin’ quite an’ ’abit wi’ him. But, bless ye, doan’t ye go a-worryin’—Jarge’ll come back safe an’ sound, ’e allus do—if ye wait long enough.”
“Now you, Bunkle, look’ee here!” boomed Mr. Oxham, whip a-flourish. “We know as there’s a cargo to be run to-night somewheres——”
“Cargo?” repeated Mr. Bunkle, vastly astonished. “Oh? What of? Run where?”
“You know that well enough, Bunkle, but no matter! We want Potter. Lord Sayle knows ’e be one o’ the ringleaders, and he’s sent us to tak’ him, and tak’ him we will.”
“Well, then, tak’ him,” nodded Mr. Bunkie, “an’ I’ll get back to my cookin’—as fine a jugged-’are——”
“Where is he? Speak up!”
“Who?”
“Why, Potter, damme!”
“Lord, bean’t ye a-tellin’ me as he be vanished, an’ if he be vanished, I suppose vanished ’e be——”
“Where to, dang ye—where?”
“’Ow should I know?” sighed Mr. Bunkle. “An’ that theer jugged-’are nigh ready to be dished—’ow should any one know? Arl as I do know is as theer be strange ’appenings ’ereabouts, aye, that there be; country’s full o’ arl manner o’ unnat’ralness—visions, spekiters—Mus’ Sturton seen a phanitum only t’other night; didn’t ye, Mus’ Sturton?”
“Who says so—lies!” cried Mr. Sturton fiercely. “And, Oxham, if ye hope to find Potter you’d best search now ’stead o’ wasting any more time.”
“Aye, search be the word!” nodded Mr. Bunkle. “I can show ye arl manner o’ likely places to search in——”
“I’ll find the curst rogue if we ha’ to pull the danged place about your ears——”
“Why, very good!” answered Mr. Bunkle, rubbing his hands. “Only arl breakages must be paid for——”
“Paid for?” roared Mr. Oxham, louder than ever. “Gimme any more o’ your imperence an’ I’ll pay ye wi’ my whip!”
“I shouldn’t!” answered Mr. Bunkle. “No, I shouldn’t if I was you, Oxham.”
For answer Mr. Oxham raised his whip, only to have it twitched out of his grasp from behind, and, wheeling about, came face to face with the imperturbable Robert.
“You ... you ...” he panted. “Gimme that whip!”
“With j’y!” answered the ex-Corporal, stepping back for space to strike.
“I suggest the fire, Robert!” murmured Sir John from where he lolled upon the settle; and next moment Mr. Oxham’s whip was among the flames, and before its stupefied owner could find words, Sir John continued:
“And now, Mr. Oxham, you may depart and do your expected bellowing elsewhere. I find you altogether offensive!... D’ye hear me, fellow—go!”
Mr. Oxham’s large face grew inflamed and seemed to swell larger, and he glared from the indolent figure on the settle to his five uneasy stalwarts; but hard by, the corporal and Mr. Bunkle stood poised for action offensive; in the doorway, Mr. Pym leaned upon his prawning-net, and behind him loomed Messrs. Pursglove and Muddle, while divers faces scowled in at the open lattice. Observing all of which, Mr. Sturton spoke:
“We’d best be going, Oxham. We’ll see no more o’ Potter to-night, I reckon, leastways—not hereabouts. We’d best be going——”
“Go?” roared Oxham. “Not yet, damme!” And, speaking, drew a pistol from his pocket, but, in that moment, down came Mr. Pym’s unerring prawning-net, completely enveloping his head, and thus securely netted he was deftly disarmed by Mr. Bunkle, who, levelling the weapon at the gloomy five, commanded them to begone; which order they promptly obeyed, followed by Sturton and lastly by Mr. Oxham, hustled ignominiously into the street, his head still enveloped in the net, to be greeted by the laughter of all Alfriston, as it seemed.
“We have raised the devil, I fear,” said Mr. Pym, as the hooting and laughter died away. “We shall have Lord Sayle down on us for this, which is bad, and I have lost a very good net—which is worse!”
“But egad, sir,” laughed Sir John, “sure never was net lost to better purpose! You’ll stay to crack a bottle, I hope? You’ll do me the honour, sir?”
“Thank’ee, no, Mr. Derwent. I must be up and away early to-morrow.”
“To paint, sir?”
“To prawn!” answered the painter, his eyes twinkling. “An occupation less lofty, mayhap, but equally absorbing, and often bringing more ultimate comfort and satisfaction.”
“But, sir—surely a picture——”
“May be good or bad,” sighed the painter, “but a prawn is ever and always—a prawn! Have ye ever tried ’em—fresh boiled ... warm from the pot, sir?”
“Never!”
“Ah,” quoth Mr. Pym, “there is, sir, to your man of delicate perception and fine sentiment, in the strains of music, the glory of dawn, the glow of sunset, the chaste beauty of evening, there is, I say, a tender glamour, a joy inexpressible, but ... prawns ... warm from the pot may reach the soul just as surely though by a different avenue. Perchance to-morrow you may learn this—if you will?”
So saying, the painter laughed suddenly, shook hands and strode away.
“And now, sirs,” sighed Mr. Bunkle, carefully uncocking Mr. Oxham’s pistol, “mindin’ that theer jugged-’are o’ mine as ha’ been a-juggin’ of itself a sight too long, if you’ll gimme your orders an’ lemme go, I’ll be obleeged.”
“Can you give us accommodation here, Mr. Bunkle?”
“Why, sir, that arl depends on how much, what-like and when?”
“Two rooms. Now.”
“Was you a-thinkin’ o’ stayin’ ’ere, sirs? For long?”
“Some weeks.”
“Think o’ that, now! Dunno as oi bean’t that upset to tell you as arl my rooms be took, sir. But theer be ‘The Star’ down the street, comfortable and very ’ome-like——”
“Then you won’t take us, Mr. Bunkle?”
“Caan’t, sir! It bean’t nowise possible nohow or——” Mr. Bunkle paused suddenly, for in the circumambient air was a dull yet persistent knocking, a noise very difficult to locate, that seemed now overhead, now under foot, now behind the walls; hearkening to which elusive sound, Mr. Bunkle’s eye grew dreamy, he stroked his clean-shaven chin, he smoothed his neat apron and, the knocks having subsided, coughed and spoke:
“Two rooms, oi think you said, sir? Only two?”
“Two, Mr. Bunkle.”
“Why, then, if two’ll be enough, I think ... p’r’aps ... maybe we might ... manage it.”
Here three raps louder then before.
“Yes ... I be purty sure we can, sir.”
Here two raps.
“We will, sir.”
Here a single sharp rap and silence.
“Mr. Bunkle,” said Sir John, smiling, “we thank you, and I can promise that you will find us very quiet lodgers—full of sympathy and understanding.”
“Why, then, gen’elmen, if ye’ll trouble to step this way, my mist’us will show ye your rooms.”