“BLYTHEWOOD,” said Mr. Tuke, “’twould be a rare thing could we light on this bogle-gem—succeed where a whole troop of cut-throats had failed—and bribe Luvaine to sanity thereby. But, I confess, it strikes me hard that I am to serve meanwhile as whipping-boy to his rueful worship; to know him warm in his blankets, while the vermin overrun my estate o’ cold nights for a treasure he hath lost.”
“’Tis the fortune of battle, Tuke, and like cryin’ ‘God bless his Majesty!’ for the favour of a bayonet-thrust under king’s button.”
“Yes, but I seek no glory.”
“But you seek a jewel that could serve you with an army of it. And, consider, the wound will go on sloughin’ while the bullet is in. We must get to work to-morrow, by your leave; portion ‘Delsrop’ into squares, like a chess-board, and hunt it over foot by foot.”
“’Tis the only way.”
The two were riding in company, whereby it will be seen that not only was the breach between them healed, but that the older man had taken the younger into his further confidence.
This was all as it should be. The quarrel had been a paltry one; and once convinced of his wrong-headedness, the lord of Wastelands, like the gracious gentleman he was, had not hesitated to offer a handsome apology that was as courteously received. A few words, a jolly laugh or so over a bottle of Oporto, and the two were faster friends than they had been as yet.
Now, as fruit of close discussion, they were on their way to an interview with Mr. Breeds; and Dennis rode in their company, at a distance behind, like a feat squire of knight-errantry.
It was comical and pathetic, this good fellow’s earnest conduct of the post he had long coveted. His eye was bright and alert for surprises; his air a perpetual rehearsal of keenness that should not be caught napping. An atmosphere of mild braggadocio went with him—an assumption of swagger that was like a “property” cuirass on the breast of an inoffensive super. And yet, having regard to his upbringing, he was fine and faithful, and even courageous in a certain degree of proportion.
The two gentlemen rode up to the “Dog and Duck,” and, dismounting, committed their horses to the servant, and walked straightway into the tap. As they entered, a scuffling sound, like the dive of a ponderous rat behind the wainscot, preceded them; and, standing still, they were aware of some apoplectic breathing stifling in the little bar-parlour.
Mr. Tuke stepped up to the counter.
“Landlord,” said he loudly, “a bottle of port, if you please.”
The breathing subsided with a rolling noise, as if a heap of nuts were settling down on the floor; and suddenly the great blotched face of Mr. Breeds appeared in the doorway.
“Port, your honour?” said he, in a tremulous voice. “I take your honour’s order.”
He disappeared and returning in a moment with a bottle hugged in his fat hands, moved officiously to the counter, where he tweaked a greasy forelock to his worshipful customers.
“Hold it up, man—hold it up! the cork to your eye, and the good black body to your own. So shall I see to tap it.”
The landlord uttered a thick scream.
“Mr. Tuke! Oh, God’s pity, sir, you ain’t a-goin’ to shoot me?”
He had lifted the bottle as bidden, and lo! there was the muzzle of a wicked horse-pistol pointed straight at his breast.
The two gentlemen laughed.
“Why,” said the elder, “I want to make sure this time the stuff isn’t tampered with. Hold steady, while I knock the neck off.”
Nerveless with terror the man let fall the bottle, simply because he couldn’t hold it; and, dropping on his pads of knees, howled for mercy.
“God save me, sir—I never did! The wine wasn’t hocussed, sir. Your honour saw the cork drawn!”
At this—“Harkee, fellow!” called Sir David, striking in, “d’ye think I, a Justice of the Peace, will endure this gallows’ game in our midst?”
Mr. Tuke laughed afresh.
“Oh, fie, Mr. Breeds!” said he. “So you must own to a bin of ready-drugged?”
The landlord ducked behind the counter, and cried abjectly from that beery covert:
“Don’t shoot, sir—don’t shoot! If the stuff was headstrong, ’twas none of my contriving. There have been lither knaves compelling me of late.”
The two men exchanged a glance.
“Well,” said Mr. Tuke, “you can show your head above, and e’en draw the cork after your own fashion.”
The cumbrous creature scrambled to his feet, puffing and sweltering; and so manipulated the bottle with shaking hands.
“And whither are your guests flown?” said one of the gentlemen.
“Meanin’ Mr. Fern and his off-scourings, sir? To Botany Bay, whence they came, is my desperate hope. As cozening scoundrels, your noble honours, as ever practised on a decent innkeeper.”
“You were no party to their roguery, then?”
“Party!” (the man was fussing and feinting with his corkscrew). “Mr. Tuke, sir, I was terrified of my life while the reskels remained. The shadow of ’em lay like as a blight on my custom.”
“And you have the assurance to tell me that they coerced you?”
“So help me, sir, they did.”
“With what object?”
The man stuttered and went clammy.
“Answer, fellow!” cried Sir David.
“I protest, gentlemen, I was unacquent of their intentions.”
“What! you were compelled, and you are ignorant whereto?”
“To shut my eyes, sir—to shut my eyes, noble gentlemen. That’s the sum of my knowledge.”
“Mr. Breeds,” said Tuke, quietly, “have you ever heard tell of the Lake of Wine?”
He watched the man narrowly. He could not have sworn to any particular intelligence in those viscous eyes.
“Not to my cost,” said the landlord, with a sickly attempt at jocosity, “or I should fill my vats at it.”
“Well,” said Sir David, impatiently, “you say your company is departed. And whither?”
“To the gallows, for all it concerns me, sir.”
“And thither, ’tis presumptive, you may follow. Now I give you a note of warning—take thought of whom you house for the future.”
He looked at the man sternly. The latter had not a word to say, but much abasement to express.
On the road home: “Do you think he is in the plot?” said Sir David.
“Yes, by heavens, I do. A very door-keeper to roguery. He hath the wit to denounce guilt, but not to look innocence.”
“Then, may I ask, why the devil you named the stone to him?”
“To take him off his guard; but the rascal was cunning. Yet the pack shall know now we are not ignorant of what they hunt. Perhaps by the time they reappear—if ever—the quarry will have been run down by us, and Luvaine the centre of attraction.”