“We can soon get home, Mr Perry-Morton,” said Cynthia, with the malicious look coming back into her eyes, and chasing away one that was very soft and sweet. “Wouldn’t you like to go after Lord Artingale?”
“What! and leave you two unprotected?” said the apostle, loudly. “No, I could not, to save my life.”
He did not, but attended the ladies right up to the rectory, sending their father into a fury, and then leading a party of servants to the pursuit of the tramps, as they were dubbed, but only to meet Lord Artingale at the end of a couple of hours returning unsuccessful from his chase.
For he had not seen either of the fellows, from the fact that as soon as the ladies had gone they had quietly entered the wood, to lie down amongst the mossy hazel stubbs, from which post of vantage they had seen the young man go by.
“Hadn’t we better hook it, Jock?” said the lesser vagabond.
“Hook it? No. What for? We haven’t done nothing agen the lor.”
There was hot indignation at the rectory, and Frank and Cyril went straight to Tom Morrison’s cottage, frightening the wheelwright’s wife, and making her look paler as she took refuge with Budge in the back, only coming forward after repeated summonses, and then keeping the girl with her, as she said, truthfully, that Jock Morrison had not been there for days.
“What’s the matter?” said Tom, coming from his workshop, and looking sternly at the two visitors.
“Matter!” cried Frank, fiercely; “we want that brother of yours; he has been insulting my sister.”
“Then you had better find him and punish him,” said Tom, coldly.