“But we shall catch fish—more, perhaps, than you expect.”
The two friends trudged on, and, upon turning a corner of the narrow lane, came upon Mother Goodhugh, standing at the turning where Sir Mark had made his first acquaintance with Wat Kilby.
“Good morrow, Mother Goodhugh,” said the stout parson.
“Save thee, my daughter,” said Father Brisdone.
“Are you both going to curse the murderer of Abel Churr?” said Mother Goodhugh, sourly.
“Nay,” said Master Peasegood; “and it would behove thee better, good woman, if thou did’st not sprinkle these curses of thine about with so liberal a hand. Come along, father.”
“Yes, go along,” cried the old woman, maliciously; “time-servers and makers of friendship with the ungodly as you are. But you’ll see, you’ll live to see.”
“She’s a terrible old woman,” said Master Peasegood, with a curious smile upon his lip; “and she seems to make my fat go cold, like unto that of venison on an unwarmed dish. I’ve given her up, father, as a bad nut to crack. The worst of it is, that if I turn prophet my sayings are never fulfilled; while, when she raises her voice, her prophesyings come to pass, and the simple folks here believe in her more than in me. But thank goodness, here we are.”
Three hundred paces brought them to the edge of the lake, over which the soft white mists were disappearing before the sun. The boat lay on the sandy beach, with a chain holding it fast to the trunk of an old willow; and, as soon as the basket and wallet had been laid in, Master Peasegood helped his friend to take his place.
“I don’t think I shall swamp the boat, Brother Brisdone,” he said, laughing, as he sent the skiff well down in the water. “If I do, just you hold on tightly to my gown, for I’m too fat to sink.”