“Hooray, farmer!” he cried, all eagerness and delight. “I telled you so—I telled you so, and you wouldn’t believe it, and Miss Jessie theer turned like a wood cat, and was ready to scrat my eyes out.”
Jessie’s colour came and went as her little bosom heaved, and she turned her chair so as to avoid the keeper’s gaze.
“What did’st tell me?” said the farmer gruffly.
“Why, that John Maine was out ivery night skulking ’bout the vicarage whiles he should ha’ been at home i’ bed like an honest man. And I telled ye he was in co. wi’ a couple o’ poachers and thieves over here fro’ one o’ the big towns; and I telled you he weer nobbut a tramp hissen.”
“How dare you speak of him like that?” cried Jessie, starting up with flashing eyes, and stamping her foot. “You wouldn’t dare to speak so to John Maine’s face, for fear he should beat you.”
“Hoity, toity!” exclaimed the farmer. “Who told thee to speak, lass? Let the man finish.”
“I will not sit here and listen to such talk,” cried Jessie, angrily, and with an energy which plainly told her feelings towards the missing man. “Let him wait till John comes.”
“That wean’t niver be,” said the keeper, with a grin of satisfaction. “Because why? Just as I towd thee, farmer, there weer a robbery at the vicarage last night.”
“No!” cried old Bultitude, starting up with his mouth full.
“Ay, mun, but there weer,” cried Brough, in an exulting tone. “Just as I said theer’d be, all plotted and planned out to get parson’s silver cups and toots—all plotted and planned out by John Maine and his blackguard mates. Thank your stars, and you too, Miss Jessie, as you haven’t both been robbed and murdered.”