“Tim, the groom boy, sir, as he rode home, picked up a poor one-legged sailor, for he was afraid, he said, to pass the gibbets on the wild heath alone.”
“Who, the sailor or Tim?”
“The groom, sir.”
“I thought it wasn’t the sailor,” said Ned. “An English sailor without legs at all is more than a match for any foreigner with two, and as to being afraid to pass the gibbets, ha! ha! British tars ain’t afraid of men dangling in chains.”
“Silence, Ned. What of this poor sailor?”
“Tim said, sir, as how Master Edward were fond of sailors.”
“So I am; Tim was right.”
“He brought him to the Hall to pass the night.”
“Good boy, Tim,” said Ned. “I owe him a shilling for that. Won’t we pump all the yarns out of him before he goes to-morrow, that’s all?”
“Where is this cripple, then?”