“I’ll come,” John replied curtly. “Open the gate, Ben!”
He did not wait to see this order obeyed, but strode back into the toll-house, where he found Mr. Babbacombe, in his shirt-sleeves, wincing from the savagery of eggs, spitting furiously in boiling fat.
“Bab—I’m sorry, indeed I am!—but I must leave you in charge here!” he said. “The Squire’s groom has just gone past the pike, with the Vicar, driving him to Kellands. I’m needed there—and even if Joseph had not told me so I must have gone! I fear it can only mean that the Squire is dying.”
Mr. Babbacombe removed the eggs from the fire, and tenderly licked the back of one scalded hand. “If that’s so, dear boy,” he remarked mildly, “it don’t seem to be quite the moment for you to be paying him a visit. No doubt you know best, but I shouldn’t do it myself.”
“I think you would. Joseph will come to relieve you if he can, but he will be obliged to remain at the Manor until the Vicar leaves. Ben will attend to the gate, but you’ll get very few calls. I’ll return as soon as I may—but I might be some time.”
“Very well,” said his long-suffering friend, returning the pan to the fire. “It’s to be hoped Ben likes eggs: there are six here, and I never want to see one again!”
“Poor Bab! What a way to treat you! But you will shake the dust of this place from your feet tomorrow, so take heart!” John said, sitting down to pull on his boots.
“Ah!” said Mr. Babbacombe. He saw that Ben had come back into the kitchen, and said imperatively: “Here, boy, come and finish cooking these eggs!”
Ben took the pan, but gave it as his opinion that the eggs were fried hard.
“Then turn ’em out, or fry some more!” recommended Mr. Babbacombe.