“In all my days I never happened on as foul a stye as Garsykes. Hardcastle o’ Logie saved one of yours—and there’s something you never learned, it seems.”
“Oh, aye?” sneered Murgatroyd.
“There’s fairation. Be dummocked, there’s fairation.”
Still facing them, he made his way to Hardcastle and nodded cheerily. “I’m going Logie way myself,” he said, “so we might as well step up together. Three’s company sometimes, and I’m taking the gun as a parting gift from Garsykes.”
Hardcastle fell into step beside him, swinging his cudgel. A pluckier mob would have rushed the pair of them, knowing that Will’s fowling-piece could speak only once before they were trodden down. But each man thought of his own skin, and stood cursing stupidly, and watched them dip over and down the hill-crest.
The Master and Will o’ Wisp went in silence through the blue-grey, misty night, till Hardcastle turned suddenly.
“There’s no return to Garsykes for you, after this. I’m in your debt.”
“Nay. I’d meant to go. I’m not their sort of rogue, and never was.”
“There’s supper and a bed at Logie.”
“Bless you, I want no thanks. If there was danger to-night I’d come and gladly. But they’ll let you alone for awhile. I know ’em.”