“It’s only Jack: he’s a Trojan! He’s got a bang-up prancer, too. A big, rum prancer, he is, but he don’t know how to shake hands for a carrot, not like Mollie. Oh, Mr. Chirk, can I show Jack the way Mollie—”
“Stubble it!” said Chirk briefly.
“Ay, but—”
“Dub your mummer, will you?” Chirk growled. “If Ned’s away, I’ll brush!”
“Don’t lope off on my account!” said John, putting the pack of cards on the table, and rising to his feet. “Go and stable the mare, Ben!”
Chirk, whose right hand had sought a pocket lost in the folds of his coat, stepped back a pace. His hand came up with a jerk, a serviceable pistol in its grasp. “Stand fast, cull!” he said softly. “Seems to me young bottlehead here has been talking a trifle too free!”
“I ain’t, I ain’t!” asseverated Ben, distressed to perceive that his most valued friend was displeased with him. “I ain’t whiddled nothing, only as how Mollie shakes hands for a carrot! You don’t want to brush, Mr. Chirk! Honest, he’s a bang-up cove, else I wouldn’t ha’ dubbed the jigger! And we got some rum peck and booze, Mr. Chirk! There’s a round o’ beef, and a whole cheese, and——”
“Ben, go and stable the mare!” interrupted the Captain. “You can put up your pistol, friend: I’m not a police-officer! God save the mark, do I look like one?”
Mr. Chirk’s left hand had shot out to grasp Ben by the shoulder, but it relaxed its grip. “I’m bound to say you don’t,” he replied, keeping his eyes on the Captain’s face, and his pistol levelled. “Maybe you’re a swell-trap: I dunno that. What might you be doing here, if you ain’t a trap?”
“That’s a long story. Let the boy go!” said the Captain, walking over to the cupboard which served the toll-house as a larder, and collecting from its depths the beef which Mrs. Skeffling had roasted on the spit that morning, and a large cheese. Setting these on the table, he glanced at Chirk, on whose lean countenance a smile was hovering, and said: “You’ll find a loaf of bread in the bin over there.”