“Guess you ’m dreamin’, Blee,” said Mr. Lyddon, as he took his hat and walked into the farmyard.
Billy was hurt.
“Dreamin’, be I? I’m a man as dreams blue murders, of coourse! Tu auld to be relied on now, I s’pose. Theer! Theer!” he changed his voice and it ran into a cracked scream of excitement. “Theer! P’r’aps I’m dreamin’, as Inspector Chown an’ Constable Lamacraft be walkin’ in the gate this instant moment!”
But there was no mistaking this fact. Abraham Chown entered, marched solemnly to the party at the door, cried “Halt!” to his subordinate, then turned to Mr. Lyddon.
“Good-day to you, Miller,” he said, “though ’t is a bad day, I’m fearin’. I be here for Will Blanchard, alias Tom Newcombe.”
“If you mean my son-in-law, he ’s not out of bed to my knawledge.”
“Dear sawls! Doan’t ’e say ’t is blue murder—doan’t ’e say that!” implored Mr. Blee. His head shook and his tongue revolved round his lips.
“Not as I knaws. We ’m actin’ on instructions from the military to Plymouth.”
“Theer ’s allus wickedness hid under a alias notwithstanding,” declared Billy, rather disappointed; “have ’e found Jan Grimbal?”
“They be searchin’ for un. Jim Luke, Inspector to Moreton, an’ his men be out beatin’ the country. But I’m here, wi’ my staff, for William Blanchard. March!”