Mr. Marks retraced his few deliberate steps.
“Hi hain’t the sergeant, thankin’ you kindly. Hi ought to be. But to hought hain’t to is—as Hi tells Mrs. Marks—she bein’ hambitious. Beggin’ your pardon, there’s a little matter Hi’d like to arsk your hadvice about. An’ that his: Might you ’ave ’ad a confederate houtside?” He gestured with his thumb.
“A confederate?” in surprise.
“No. Hi suppose not” disappointedly. “You bein’ the shoofer, Hi couldn’t say wot you’d want of a confederate. But Hi could a-swore Hi saw a ’eavy-set lookin’ man hon the ’illside habove me w’en Hi started hup to inquire wot you was doin’ hon that there railin’. That’s wot I fired the second shot for, w’en I got hup from hunder your boots. But my eyes not bein’ the best, Hi couldn’t swear hif it was a man hor a strayed cow, hor a juniper bush. But Hi took a pot shot at wot Hi thought it was; and hit seemed to me like Hi ’eard a groan. Hit might ’ave been a cow. Did you groan?”
“Moo—oo. Like that?”
Marks studied the sound.
“Hi carn’t say Hi reco’nize hit. Hi do wish Hi was a better ‘and at ’ittin wot Hi shoots at. That’s halways been a failin’ o’ mine. Look, in your hown case—just a bit of a scratch, that’s hall—and me a-’oldin’ on to your coat-tails at the time. It’ud count for a miss. Hit’s very ’umiliatin’ to a horfcer. At that, it might ’ave been a juniper bush. Good-night, sir.”
He surveyed his victim from the doorway in a peevish fashion and muttered:
“Hi do wish my aim was better. Hi do wish that.”
“Oh, good-night!” Rosamond cried in uncontrollable exasperation.