"They will take away any decent man's name," said I. "Come, I want my horse. You have no fancy for preventive men, I'll guess."
And this was true enough, for he had a mine of cellars under his inn and through the roadway.
"But your friend?" said he, still wavering. "Him that is dead—"
"As good a man as ever rolled a barrel," said I.
He relaxed his grip of the door. "'Tis a sore business for me this night," he complained.
"Nay," said I, "for I will rid your premises of myself and friend, by your leave or without it," says I.
He seemed relieved at that, and I entered. The horses were safe, as I discovered, for Grubbe must have been too full of his own prime business to make search, and getting them out, I made my preparations. I strapped the lad's body in the stirrups, so that he lay forward on the horse with his head a-wagging but (God deliver him!) his soul at rest. And presently we were on the road, and threading the wilderness of the black pine-woods for the vale below towards London.
The moon was a glimmering arc across the Hurtwood as I came out on the back of Shere, and pulling out of the long lane that gave entry to the village, reined up by the White Horse. From the inn streamed a clamour of laughter, and without the doorway, and well-nigh blocking it, was drawn up a carriage, with a coachman in his seat, that struck my eyes dimly in the small light. I was not for calling eyes on me with a dead man astride his horse, so I moved into the yard, thinking to drain a tankard of ale, if no better, before I took the road over the downs to Effingham. But I was scarce turned into the yard ere a light flung through the window peered on a face that changed all the notions in my skull. 'Twas Grubbe!
Leaving the horses by I went back to the front of the inn, and says I to the coachman that waited there, as I rapped loud on the door,—
"'Tis shrewish to-night."