John Pillings was perfectly furious, and did all he could to find out with the aid of the police who the offenders were; but the matter coming to the ears of Sir John Lappington in his capacity as chairman of the bench of magistrates, he thought it best to give "Ould Sulky" a timely hint that, unless he reformed, he would find himself again on the world, and also recommended him strongly to give up searching for his abductors.
Perhaps the Master's brother, Harold Lappington, having been the prime mover in the freak, had as much to do with this sage counsel as Sir John's magisterial capacity; but no matter how that is, suffice it that Pillings dropped the subject like a hot potato, and fell back on his own thoughts for comfort.
He says now: "I'll be even with them scamps some day, or my name ain't Pillings. As soon as ever I finds out—and find 'em I will, police or no police—I'll smash 'em; you see."
Old Tom and the Master he holds in great dread, and looks up to them with as much veneration as his nature is capable of feeling. But for the common herd, alias the field, he has no respect, and often makes himself exceedingly unpleasant to boot. If the hounds happen to run his way, and the macadam brigade come galloping down the road, "Ould Sulky" is out in a jiff, and bang goes the gate, while he stands in front and utters the monosyllabic "Toll."
"Oh, all right, open the gate, the last man will pay," shouts someone.
"You'll only go through one at a time, and you'll each pay, or I'll know the reason why. I've never found that last cove 'as any money along with him," retaliates Pillings; and there he will stand taking each man's money and fumbling about for the change, till all the luckless ones are through and the hounds are well out of sight and hearing.
Then "Sulky" will retire to his den with a chuckle and put away the money, muttering to himself: "Last chap 'ull pay! Likely as I'm going to be took in a that 'uns. Don't fancy they'll see much of t' hounds again anyhow."
Of course if Sir John or Tom happens to be there Pillings is civility itself, and there is no question of first or last, for he knows it would not do, and that if he were to play those sort of pranks with the Master his place would not be worth an hour's purchase. As it is, he is often hard put to it to find an excuse for his behaviour; but he somehow manages to escape by the skin of his teeth, and from constant repetition his performances are looked upon as a regular institution in the county.
It is, however, whispered abroad that another year will see a different face at the gate, for even the most conservative of mortals is apt to tire of John's rudeness, and so they are only waiting a favourable opportunity in order to get rid of him altogether.
They have repeatedly tried to have the turnpike removed from the road, and have pointed out the inconvenience and annoyance of the thing; but hitherto their efforts have been of no avail, so now they have given it up as a bad job, and have banded themselves together to catch out the principal cause of the nuisance. If they are successful, and Pillings is again out of employment, it will be a difficult matter with him to find bread for himself and wife, for it is extremely doubtful whether anyone in Bullshire would care to have so morose and drunken a servant about their premises.