The Yeoman Adventurer Part 39

"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 shilling 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 fishing-rods."

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

"Are you really Swift Nicks, sir?" asked the lad, looking steadily at me with frank, innocent eyes.

"No more than you are Jonathan Wild or Prester John, my son," I answered.

"Then who are you?" he persisted.

"I'm a poor splicer of fishing-rods. I get my living by riding about the country on a fine horse, with one pair of pistols in my holsters and another pair in my pocket, looking for nice little boys with broken fishing-rods, and mending 'em--the rods, not the boys--so that father never finds it out and the rod's better than ever it was. How big was the chub?"

"That big!" said he, holding his hands about two feet apart.

"The great advantage, my son, of having your rod mended by me is that ever afterwards you'll be able to tell a chub from a whale."

"Sir," said he proudly, "a Chartley never lies."

"Of course," said I, "it's hard to say exactly how big a fish is when you've missed him. So your name's Chartley. Is this Chartley Towers?"

"It is," said he, with a taking boyish pride ringing in his voice. "We are the Chartleys of Chartley Towers. We go back to Edward the Third."

Did ever man enjoy such fat luck as mine? I had been as hard beset as a nut in the nutcrackers. To prove that I was not Swift Nicks I should have to prove that I was Oliver Wheatman. The Bow Street runner would see to that, for, as Swift Nicks, I was worth fifty guineas to him, a sum of money for which he would have hanged half the parish without a twinge.

Cross or pile, I should lose the toss. Drive away the cart! Such had been my thoughts, and now a lad's young pride had s.n.a.t.c.hed me out of danger. I grew quite merry over the splicing, and told young Chartley all about my fight with the great jack.

The job was near on finished when there was a rattle of hoofs without, and, a minute later, the door was flung open and in swept a torrent of yapping foxhounds, followed by a big, hearty, noisy man in jack-boots and a brown scratch bob-wig.

"Dinner! Dinner!" he shouted to his wife, who came in to meet him. "The best run o' the year, la.s.s! Thirty miles before he earthed, the dogs running breast-high every yard of it, and the very devil of a dig-out!

There was only me and parson and young Bob Eld o' Seighford in at the death. Dinner, dinner, my la.s.s! I could eat the side of a house. Hallo, damme! What art doing here, Jack Grattidge?"

The question was put to the host, who was shuffling down the hall to meet him. The Squire slashed the dogs silent with his half-hunter to catch the reply.

"Please, y'r honour," said the host, "we've copped Swift Nicks."

"By G--! You a'nt!"

"We 'an," declared the host.

"Hurrah!" roared the Squire. "That's news! I owe you a guinea for it, Jack."

He clumped up to the hearth, crying out as he came, "Show me the black, b.l.o.o.d.y scoundrel! I'd crawl to London on my hands and knees to watch him turned off."

Seeing me engaged in the innocent task of mending his lad's fishing-rod, with the lad himself at my knees intent on the work, he took Mr. Wicks for the highwayman, and cursed and swore at him hard enough to rive an oak-tree. He was, indeed, so hot and heady that it was some minutes before his mistake could be brought home to him. By the time he realized that the man mending the rod was Swift Nicks, he had fired off all his powder, and only stared at me with wide-open eyes.

"I suppose," said I, very politely, "that, as you've been hunting, the chestnut is still on the hob."

"I'm d.a.m.ned!" says he, and flops down into his elbow-chair.

In the end we made a treaty, to Mr. Wicks' great disgust, who saw the guineas slipping through his fingers. Nor was the Squire less aggrieved at first, for clearly it was to him a matter of high concern to nail Swift Nicks.