“A barber! Lor’ bless the man! thee can’t mean that.”
“I do, though. He were once a barber, and cut the throat of a nobleman for his money.”
“Awful!”
“Yes, and afore they caught him he joined the Skeleton Crew, but was afterwards gibbeted; but that didn’t seem to concern him much, for they say he can get out at certain times and seasons, and goes on the spree.”
“On the spree! What! a sperit goo on the spree, Maister Nettles?”
“So they say; but I can never believe it, nor will I until I sees it with my own eyes.”
The conversation of Nettles with the village barber so much interested the open-mouthed villagers, that many lounged into the little shop to hear it.
This arose from the fact that all felt greatly interested in listening to his narrative of the brave and heroic exploits of young Warbeck on sea and land, and especially interesting at the present time, since it was whispered that old Sir Richard Warbeck at the Hall was in deep grief through the sad disgrace which Charley, Ned’s elder brother, had fallen into lately in London.
The sudden disappearance of the miller’s daughter, the horrible murder of her rustic lover, the escape of Bob Bertram from prison, and the half strangulation of the sexton, parish clerk, and others in the belfry by the Skeleton Crew, all tended to heighten the interest of any remarks old Nettles might make.
This was more so when it was well known that the old tavern-keeper had actually fought a battle with the terrible Death-wing and his gang,