“I can’t stand it,” he muttered at last. “I must have a quiet pipe.”
Striding out of the hall as if he were on duty, he marched right out across the park and into the lane, from whence he struck into the first opening in the fir woods where the shade seemed to calm him; and, taking out a pipe-case, he extracted a very black bruyère root pipe, filled it, stuck it in his mouth, and then, seeking for a match in his vest pocket, he lit it deftly by giving it a rub on the leg of his trousers, puffed his tobacco into incandescence, and then threw the glowing vesta, like a hand grenade, over his left shoulder.
There was a sharp ejaculation, and then,—“Confound your insolence, fellow!” Thompson started round, and found himself facing the major, trowel in one hand, malacca cane in the other.
“That light hit me in the face, sir. Do you know, sir, that you may set the woods on fire, sir?” cried the major. “What! Thompson! ’Tention! What the devil are you doing here?”
The man gave a sharp look to left and right, and then, from old habit, obeyed the imperious military order, and drew himself upright, staring straight before him—“eyes front.”
“You scoundrel!” cried the major, seizing him by the collar, and holding his cane threateningly, as the idea of some peril to his niece flashed across his mind. “You’ve brought a note or some message to the Hall.”
“No, sir! really, sir, I haven’t, sir.”
“Don’t dare to lie to me, you dog!” cried the major, with the stick moving up and down, and Thompson’s eyes following it, in the full belief that at any moment it might fall upon his shoulders.
“It’s gospel truth, sir,” he cried. “I haven’t got no note. How could I have?”
“Where’s your master?”