After having paid their score in the morning, the two set out again. They had not gone more than five miles before a man on horseback overtook them, whom they recognised as Mr. Rifle, the highwayman of the night before. He asked them if they knew who he was. Strap fell on his knees in the road. “For heaven’s sake, Mr. Rifle,” said he, “have mercy on us, we know you very well.”
“Oho!” cried the thief, “you do! But you shall never be evidence against me in this world, you dog!” and so saying, he drew a pistol and fired at the unfortunate shaver, who fell flat on the ground, without a word. He then turned upon Roderick, but the sound of horses’ hoofs was heard, and a party of travellers galloped up, leaving the highwayman barely time to ride off. One of them was the captain who had been robbed the day before. He was not, as may already have been gathered, a valiant man. He turned pale at the sight of Strap. “Gentlemen,” said he, “here’s murder committed; let us alight.” The others were for pursuing the highwayman, and the captain only escaped accompanying them by making his horse rear and snort, and pretending the animal was frightened. Fortunately, Strap “had received no other wound than what his fear had inflicted”; and after having been bled at an inn half a mile away, they were about to resume their journey, when a shouting crowd came down the road, with the highwayman in the midst, riding horseback with his hands tied behind him. He was being escorted to the nearest Justice of the Peace. Halting a while for refreshment, they dismounted Mr. Rifle and mounted guard, a circle of peasants armed with pitchforks round him. When they at length reached the magistrate’s house, they found he was away for the night, and so locked their prisoner in a garret, from which, of course, he escaped.
Roderick and Strap were now free from being detained as evidence. For two days they walked on, staying on the second night in a public-house of a very sorry appearance in a small village. At their entrance, the landlord, who seemed a venerable old man, with long grey hair, rose from a table placed by a large fire in a neat paved kitchen, and, with a cheerful countenance, accosted them with the words: “Salvete, pueri; ingredimini.” It was astonishing to hear a rustic landlord talking Latin, but Roderick, concealing his amazement, replied, “Dissolve frigus, ligna super foco large reponens.” He had no sooner pronounced the words than the innkeeper, running towards him, shook him by the hands, crying, “Fili mi dilectissime! unde venis?—a superis, ni fallor.” In short, finding them both read in the classics, he did not know how to testify his regard sufficiently; but ordered his daughter, a jolly, rosy-checked damsel, who was his sole domestic, to bring a bottle of his quadrimum; repeating at the same time from Horace, “Deprome quadrimum Sabinâ, O Thaliarche, merum diota.” This was excellent ale of his own brewing, of which he told them he had always an amphora, four years old, for the use of himself and friends.
The innkeeper proved to be a schoolmaster who was obliged, by his income being so small, to supplement it by turning licensed victualler. He was very inquisitive about their affairs, and, while dinner was preparing, his talk abounded both with Latin tags and with good advice to the inexperienced against the deceits and wickedness of the world. They fared sumptuously on roast fowl and several bottles of quadrimum, going to bed congratulating themselves on the landlord’s good-humour. Strap was of opinion that they would be charged nothing for their lodging and entertainment. “Don’t you observe,” said he, “that he has conceived a particular affection for us; nay, even treated us with extraordinary fare, which, to be sure, we should not of ourselves have called for?”
Roderick was not so sanguine. Rising early in the morning, and having breakfasted with their host and his daughter on hasty-pudding and ale, they desired to know what there was to pay.
“Biddy will let you know, gentlemen,” said the old rascal of a tapster, “for I never mind these matters. Money-matters are beneath the concern of one who lives on the Horatian plan: Crescentem sequitur cura pecuniam.”
Meanwhile, Biddy, having consulted a slate that hung in a corner, gave the reckoning as eight shillings and sevenpence.
“Eight shillings and sevenpence!” cried Strap; “’tis impossible! You must be mistaken, young woman.”
“Reckon again, child,” said the father very deliberately; “perhaps you have miscounted.”
“No, indeed, father,” replied she. “I know my business better.”