He went back into the gatehouse, a crease between his brows. This did not escape Ben’s notice. He made haste to point out that he had thoroughly swept the kitchen; and as this was productive of nothing more than a nod ventured to ask if the Captain was angry.
John, who was rather absently ladling water into the iron kettle which hung from a hook above the old-fashioned fireplace, paused, dipper in hand, and looked down at him. “Angry? No. Why should I be?”
“I thought you looked as if you was in a tweak—a bit cagged, like,” explained Ben.
“I was wondering what’s to be done with you, if your dad doesn’t come back today. Can you think of any place where he might have had business? Did he ever visit anyone in Sheffield, for instance?”
“He don’t visit nobody, me dad don’t. And if he was going to town, he’d put his best toge on, and a shap on his head, and he didn’t,” replied Ben shrewdly. “He loped off just like he was going down to the Blue Boar. P’raps he’s been pressed, like Simmy!”
Since this solution did not seem in any way to disturb Ben, the Captain refrained from trying to convince him that the Press Gang neither operated in remote inland districts, nor pressed such persons as gatekeepers. He went on ladling water into the kettle; and Ben, suddenly remembering that he had not fed the pig, which led a somewhat restricted life in a sty at the bottom of the ground, took himself off to repair this omission.
As soon as the kettle began to sing the Captain poured some of the water into a tin mug, and bore it off to the gatekeeper’s bedroom. He had just set out his shaving tackle, and was about to lather his face, when he heard the sound of a vehicle approaching down the road. A shout of Gate! was raised, and John was obliged to put down his brush. Collecting the tickets on his way, he strolled out of the toll-house, and saw that a gig had drawn up to the east of it. A cursory glance showed him that the reins were being handled by a woman, and that a middle-aged groom sat beside her; and a rapid scrutiny of the list of tolls set up on a board beside the house informed him that the charge at this pike for a one-horse vehicle was threepence. He walked up to the gig, and the groom, who had been looking at him in some surprise, said: “Well, shake your shambles, can’t you? Who are you? What are you doing here?”
John raised his eyes from the book of tickets. “Gatekeeping. The charge is——”
The words died on his lips. He stood perfectly still, gazing not at the groom, but at the girl beside him.
A very tall girl, and nobly-proportioned, she was dressed in a green pelisse that was serviceable rather than fashionable. A pair of tan gloves, not in their first youth, covered her capable, well-shaped hands; and a plain bonnet with no other trimming than a bow of ribbon was set on a head of thick chestnut hair, which showed tawny gleams in the sunlight. Humorous gray eyes looked down into John’s, the arched brows above them lifting slightly; an amused smile hovered about a mouth too generous for beauty. But this faded as John stood looking up at her. She stared down at him, seeing an unshaven young giant, in stained leathers and a shirt unbuttoned at the throat, with curly fair hair ruffled by the breeze, and the bluest of eyes fixed unwaveringly on her face.