“He was one of us once, ye see, sir,” said another, addressing himself to Peace. “He’s bin taught to eat poor man’s bread and to do poor man’s work, and he knows what it is as comforts a poor man’s heart. It is only such as he as pities the poor. The rich and idle don’t pity, know not what hard work, nor hunger, nor sufferin’s loike.”
“Aye-that be true enough,” said Nat. “He’s as good as gold, an’ his ’art be in the right place.”
“I hope he’ll get home safe and sound,” said Peace; “but I suppose there aint many robbers about this part?”
“Lord, love ye, no—never a one,” cried several voices.
“You’ve forgotten young Measter Boucher,” quavered the aged Nat. “I be an old man, but I mind things better nor you do, seemingly. He was a drivin’ home from Bilstoke Fair, and just as he was agoin’ up a bit of a hill, with trees on both sides, he felt heavy on his chest, as if he had a fit comin’ on, only instead of a fit it was a stout rope, which two men held across the road, and tiddled him over out of his gig. And when he was down they was on him in a minnit, and plundered him of his watch and ten yellow sovereigns.”
“That’s the story he went home and told his mother,” said Nell, scornfully, “but I can pretty well guess how it was. Some of them flaunting hussies got and colly-fogled him into the booths to dance with ’em, and while he wer a thinkin’ how pretty he wer a doin’ his steps, whip! goes his money and watch out of his pocket into theirs.”
This speech was greeted with roars of laughter.
“Ah, Nell, thee beest a knowin’ one,” cried several.
A portion of the beer the farmer had paid for was now brought in by the little waitress. It was handed round in brown mugs to the company. The farmer’s health was drunk, also that of his son.
Peace opened his folio of prints, plain and coloured.