I told him.
“Did you, now?” he cried, shutting his eyes and grinning. “Think o’ that! Why, I put you up to the eels, and so I might say it was me as found the bands, only you see it was not you nor yet me—it was the eel.”
He nearly choked himself with laughing, but my next words sobered him, and he sat up looking painfully solemn and troubled of face.
“I’ll be bound you know who threw those bands into the water, Gentles,” I said.
One of his eyes quivered, and he looked at me as if he were going to speak. He even opened his mouth, and I could see his tongue quivering as if ready to begin, but he shut it with a snap and shook his head.
“Don’t tell any stories about it,” I said; “but you do know.”
“Don’t ask me, mester,” he cried with a groan. “Don’t ask me.”
“Then you do know,” I cried.
“I don’t know nowt,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Why, man alive, it wouldn’t be safe for a chap like me to know owt. They’d put a brick round my neck and throw me in the watter.”
“But you do know, Gentles,” I persisted.