"I knew you weren't Swift Nicks," said the Squire, "when I saw you mending my lad's fishing-rod. Damme, we'll get him though, before we've done."
He invited me to join him at breakfast, where we were alone for the first time.
"Is it into the fire or into the fender?" he asked meaningly.
I was ready for him and, stopping with the carving knife half-way through a fine ham I was slicing, said, as if amazed, "Is what into the fire or into the fender?"
"The chestnut," said he.
"The chestnut!" I retorted.
"Well, well! I don't blame you for your caution, sir. Sir James Blount sounded me and I know you know my reply. Whether fire or fender will make no difference to me, and I wouldn't miss to-day's duck-shoot to make it either."
"I hope there'll be plenty of birds, and strong on the wing," said I.
This ended all the talk that passed between us on the great event that had so strangely brought us together. He, the squire of half a dozen villages, went duck-shooting while the destiny of England was being settled just outside his own door.
For the second time Nance walked a space by my side to wish me good-bye.