At this juncture it is enough to relate of Titus Sim that he honestly believed his old friend was dead, and hoped with all his heart to marry the widow. With no little self-control he concealed his ambitions, but the fact that others saw the propriety of the match impressed him, and since not a few openly held that he might fittingly wed the young wife, he began to sound Minnie herself upon the question.
There came a day after Christmas when Titus did groom’s work and rode with a message from his master to Two Bridges, nigh Princetown. He pulled up his horse on the return journey and stopped to drink at the Warren Inn. Mr Beer was in the bar alone, and it happened that he touched the matter nearest the other’s heart.
“Seeing we’m without company for the minute,” said Johnny, “I can read ’e a bit of my last verses, Sim; an’ though you ban’t addicted to poetry, yet you’ll do well to listen patient, for the matter has to do with you in a manner of speaking, though ’tis poetry. In fact, you be mentioned by name.”
The footman, who never quarrelled with any man, pretended deep interest, and Johnny drew a piece of foolscap from his pocket, unrolled it, set a glass on the top, then spread out the sheet and read with that deliberate and loving unction peculiar to one who recites his own composition.
“’Tis the whole tragedy of two young, youthful lives told in a rhyme,” he explained. “I’ve took the tale so far as it has got like. Now ’tis for you to make history, so as I can write the next verses.”
Then the poet began:—
“Oh, ’twas a direful business sure
When out come Sweetland from church door
And, almost afore he’d kissed his wife,
To find himself tried for his dear life.