“Serve ’em right,” said Richard, turning on his heel, and leaving the counting-house, where Mr Selwood had sought him.
“What do you say, Mr Banks?” said the vicar.
“Well, sir, what I say is this,” said Joe, pulling out and examining a keen knife that he took from his pocket, “what I say is this—that he ought to find out whom this knife belongs to, and punish him.”
“That knife?”
“Yes,” said Joe, grimly. “I’ve been well over the place, and I found this knife lying on a bench. It is the one used for cootting the bands; there’s the greasy marks on it. Now, the man as that knife belongs to,” he said, closing the blade with a snap, “is him as coot the bands.”
“By the way, did you ever find the bands?” said the vicar.
“Find ’em, parson, oh yes, I fun ’em; chucked into one of the furnaces they weer.”
“And burnt?”
“Well, not exactly bunt, but so cockered up and scorched, as to be no more good. I only wish I knew who did it.”
“It was a cowardly trick,” said the vicar, “and I wish it were known, so that this unhappy strife might be stayed.”