Robert had already recognised that he was talking to the Bailiff’s searching party. Every minute that he could keep them was a minute more for Johnson and the little ones.
“Know you a man named Johnson?”
“What, here?”
“Ay, at Thorpe.”
Robert pretended to consider. “Well, let’s see—there’s Will Johnson the miller, and Luke Johnson the weaver, and—eh, there’s ever so many Johnsons! I couldn’t say to one or another, without I knew more.”
“John Johnson; he’s a labouring man.”
“Well, there is Johnsons that lives up by the wood, but I’m none so sure of the man’s name. I think it’s Andrew, but I’ll not say, certain. It may be John; I couldn’t speak, not to be sure.”
“Let him be, Gregory; he knows nought,” said the Bailiff.
Robert touched his cap, and fell behind. The Bailiff suddenly turned round.
“What’s your own name?”