Mr. Babbacombe sat in a trance-like state, listening to an interchange of conversation, during the course of which he learned that his eccentric friend was apparently keeping the gate for someone called Brean. The carrier seemed surprised that this person had not yet returned; Mr. Babbacombe was even more surprised to hear that Mr. Brean was John’s cousin. No sooner had the pike been closed behind the carrier than he exclaimed: “If you are not the most complete hand I ever knew! Now, Jack, stop bamming, and tell me what the devil you’re doing!”
“I will,” John promised, grinning up at him, “but take that natty turn-out of yours away first! If Sopworthy—that’s your ale-draper!—knows you’ve come here to see me, you may as well borrow his cob: I can stable him in the henhouse.”
“Jack!” said Mr. Babbacombe. “Are you stabling your own horse in a dashed hen-house?”
“No, no, he’s in that barn, up there! Now, do be off, Bab!” He watched Mr. Babbacombe turn his pair, and bethought him of something, and called out: “Wait, Bab!—I daresay you won’t see him, but if you should meet a fellow at the Blue Boar called Stogumber, take care what you say to him! He was nursing a broken head and a gashed shoulder this morning, but if he gets wind of such an out-and-outer as you, putting up at the inn, he’s bound to think it smoky, and very likely he’ll leave his bed to discover what your business may be. You’d better tell him you came here to visit Sir Peter Stornaway, up at the Manor, but hearing that he’s very ill you’ve thought it best not to intrude upon the family. Now, don’t forget!—Stornaway—Kellands Manor! Stogumber’s a Bow Street Runner, but he don’t know I’ve bubbled him.”
Mr. Babbacombe regarded him in fascinated horror. “A Bow Street—No, by God, I’ll be damned if I’ll go another yard until you’ve told me what kind of a kick-up this is! Dear boy, you ain’t murdered anyone?”
“Lor” bless you, gov’nor, I ain’t a queer cove!” said the Captain outrageously. “Nor no trap ain’t wishful to snabble me!”
“Dutch comfort! Do you mean the Runner ain’t after you?”
“No, he only suspects he may be,” replied the Captain. “He thinks I’m a trifle smoky.”
“If he knew as much about you as I do,” said Mr. Babbacombe, with feeling, “he’d know you’re a dangerous lunatic, and dashed well put you under restraint!”
With these embittered words, he drove off, leaving the Captain laughing, and waving farewell.