"You're going to do no such thing, you disgusting little beast. You'll get your tuppence, and you don't deserve that."
"Ah," said Blob cunningly, "this un'll be worth a little better'n tuppence surely. You knaw who he be, Maaster Sir?"
"Who then?"
Blob dropped his voice to a mysterious whisper.
"Squoire Nabowlin. Mus. Poiper tall me."
"Who?"
"Squoire Nabowlin," reiterated the boy. "Nabowlin Bounabaardie—the top Frenchie. See the legs on him! red and gold and buttons and all."
II
The Gentleman was sauntering across the grass towards the cottage, his hands behind him.
The Parson brushed aside the mattress, and thrust out, snarling.