CHAPTER XIII.
In which better days seem to dawn upon the Poacher.
A high-sounding oath from Sir John Slingsby passed unnoticed, for though every one had heard the shot, each person's attention was suddenly called to an object of his own. Ned Hayward sprang to the window and looked out, Dr. Miles started up and turned towards Mr. Wittingham; and Beauchamp, who was sitting next to that gentleman, suddenly stretched out his hand, and caught him by the arm and shoulder, so as to break his fall to the ground, though not to stop it; for the worthy magistrate, with a low exclamation of horror, which reached no ear but one, pressed his hand upon his heart, and fell fainting to the ground, just as if the ball, which had entered the window, had found out the precise spot in his skin, which had not been dipped in Styx. Nevertheless, when Sir John and Mr. Beauchamp, and Dr. Miles, lifted him up off the floor, and seated him on his chair again, though they undoubtedly expected to find one of those small holes which I should call a life-door, were it not that they never let life in, if they often let life out, yet no wound of any kind was to be perceived, except in the wig. Lights were brought, servants hurried in and out, cold water was sprinkled on the old gentleman's face, the butler recommended sal volatile, Sir John Slingsby tried brandy; and at length Mr. Wittingham was brought to himself. Every one was busy about him but Ned Hayward; and as Ned was a very charitable and benevolent man, it may be necessary to say why he bestowed no care nor attention on Mr. Wittingham. The fact was, that he did not know any thing was the matter with him; for Ned Hayward was no longer in the room; the window was open, indeed, and Ned Hayward had jumped out.
To return to Mr. Wittingham, however, no sooner did he recover breath enough to articulate, than he declared, in a low voice, he must go home.
"Why, my dear fellow!" exclaimed Sir John Slingsby, "you're not hurt, only frightened, devilish frightened, that's all, and you're still white about the gills, and fishy in the eyes. Come, come, finish your bottle, and get rid of that haddock-look before you go, or you may faint again in the carriage."
"I must go home," repeated Mr. Wittingham, in a dismal tone.
"Then what's to become of the business you came about?" inquired the baronet.
"I must leave it in your hands, Sir John," replied Mr. Wittingham, rising feebly; "l have no head for it to-night. It was about that notorious poacher, Gimlet, I came; the constables will tell you how I happen to have him apprehended; but I must go, I must go, I have no head for it."
"Though the bullet kept out, plenty of lead has got in, somehow or other," muttered Sir John Slingsby, as his fellow-magistrate tottered towards the door; but the baronet was not a bad-hearted man, and, taking compassion on Mr. Wittingham's state, he followed him with a large glass of Madeira, insisted upon his drinking it, and supported him under the right arm to the hall-door, where he delivered him over to the hands of the butler to put him safely into his carriage. While this was being effected, Sir John turned round and gazed upon the figure of Stephen Gimlet, and the two officers who had him in charge; and if his look was not peculiarly encouraging to the poacher, it certainly was much less so towards the constables. To say the truth, a constable was an animal, towards which, for some reason or another, Sir John Slingsby entertained a great dislike. It is not impossible that his old roving propensities, and sundry encounters with the particular kind of officer which was now under his thumb, had impressed him with a distaste for the whole species; but, assuredly, had he been called upon to give a Linæan description of the creature, it would have been: "A two-legged beast of the species hound, made to be beaten by blackguards and bullied by magistrates."
Waving his hand, therefore, with an air of dignity, over his extended white waistcoat, he said,--