"Grinsell, you hear that, too?"
"I hear 't," growled the man.
"Remember it, for, mark my words, you'll share his fate."
The squire was gone.
Grinsell scowled with malignant spite; Diggle laughed softly.
"Quanta de spe decidi!" he said, "which in plain English, friend Job, means that we are dished--utterly, absolutely. I must go on my travels again. Well, such was my intention; the only difference is, that I go with an empty purse instead of a full one. Who'd have thought the old dog would ha' been such an unconscionable time dying!"
"Gout or no gout, he's good for another ten year," growled the innkeeper.
"Well, I'll give him five. And, with the boy out of the way, maybe I'll come to my own even yet. The young puppy!"
At this moment Diggle's face was by no means pleasant to look upon.
"Fate has always had a grudge against me, Job. In the old days, I bethink me, 'twas I that was always found out. You had many an escape."