“Robbers rob,” said the squire laconically.
“Of course, my dear,” said Mrs Winthorpe; “and it would be dreadful to think of. Why, we could never go to our beds in peace.”
“But Mr Marston’s watch and money are all right, my dear. Depend upon it he has offended one of the rough drain diggers, and it is an act of revenge.”
“But the man ought to be punished.”
“Of course, my dear, and we’ll have the constables over from town, and he shall be found. It won’t be very hard to do.”
“Why not, father?”
“Because many of the men have no guns.”
“But they might borrow, father?”
“The easier to find out then,” said the squire. “Well, one must eat whether a man’s shot or no. History does not say that everybody went without his supper because King Charles’s head was cut off. Mother, draw the ale. Dick, tell Sarah to bring in those hot potatoes. I’m hungry, and I’ve got to sit up all night.”
There proved to be no real need, for the squire’s patient slept soundly, and there was nothing to disturb the silence at the Toft. But morning found the squire still watching, with Mrs Winthorpe busy with her needle in the dining parlour, and Dick lying down on the hearth-rug, and sleeping soundly by the glowing fire. For about four o’clock, after strenuously refusing to go to bed, he had thought he would lie down and rest for a bit, with the result that he was in an instant fast asleep, and breathing heavily.