“Yes. Ride straight there and tell the officer. No, I can’t do it.”
“Oh, do, father, please—please!”
“You here, Polly?”
“Yes, father,” said his rosy-cheeked daughter, who had fetched the mug of milk from the dairy. “You were going to send and ask them to save the prisoners.”
“Was I, mistress? And pray how do you know?”
“I guessed it, father. That poor boy!”
“Perhaps I was,” grumbled the landlord; “but I’m not going to do so now.”
“Oh, don’t say that, father!”
“But I have said it; and now, both of you go about your work.”
“Oh, father, pray, pray send!”