“The Winthorpes never feared their enemies since they settled in these parts in the days of King Alfred,” said Dick grandly.
“Hear, hear, Dick!” cried his father, laughing.
“No more did the Tallingtons,” said Tom, plucking up, so as not to be behindhand.
“Nay, Tom, my lad,” said the farmer, “Tallingtons was never fighting men. Well, squire, I thought I’d warn you.”
“Of course, of course, neighbour. But look here, whoever sent you that cowardly bit of scribble thought that because you lived out here in this lonely place you would be easily frightened. Look here,” he continued, taking a scrap of dirty paper out of his old pocket-book; “that bit of rubbish was stuck on one of the tines of a hay-fork, and the shaft driven into the ground in front of my door. I said nothing about it to you, but you see I’ve been threatened too.”
He handed the paper to Farmer Tallington, who read it slowly and passed it back.
“Same man writ both, I should say.”
“So should I—a rascal!” said the squire. “Here, Dick, don’t say a word to your mother; it may alarm her.”
“No, father, I sha’n’t say anything; but—”
“But what? Speak out.”