The gentleman started.
“Not about—about that—” he stammered.
“Tchah! Yes. It was about that, man,” said the other. “Don’t shy at it like a horse at a blue bogey in a windy lane.”
“But I told you, man, last time, that I would have no more to do with that wretched smuggling.”
“Don’t call things by ugly names.”
“My good man, it is terrible. It is dishonourable, and the act is a breaking of the laws of our country.”
“Tchah! Not it, Sir Risdon,” cried the other so sharply, that the grey horse started forward, and had to be checked. “Not the king’s laws, but the laws of that Dutchman who has come and stuck himself on the throne. Why, sir, you ought to take a pleasure in breaking his laws, after the way he has robbed you, and turned you from a real gentleman, into a poor, hard-pressed country squire, who—”
“Hush! Hush, Master Shackle!” said the tall gentleman huskily. “Don’t rake up my misfortunes.”
“Not I, Sir Risdon. I’m full o’ sorrow and respect for a noble gentleman, who has suffered for the cause of the real king, who, when he comes, will set us all right.”
“Ah, Master Shackle, I’m losing heart.”