"Blunderbuss and cutlass and dog's teeth; that's what happened, Mr. Gudgeon, as your boy Bill could tell 'ee. Why, where be the lad?"
"Been and creeped home along, by the look o't," said another man. "He bean't here. There's blood for 'ee! There's spirit! What a bold-hearted first-born you have got, to be sure, Mr. Gudgeon!"
"Hush, man! Here, come along. I can take four or five of 'ee in the gig, and you can tell me the whole story as we go."
The gig rattled away; the men for whom there was not room shambled after; and Jack smiled as he returned to the kitchen.
"There, Comely, watch him!" Gumley was saying. "I be gwine to look around the garden, sir, to make sure none on 'em be left."
Jack made no reply, but stood at the door while Gumley stumped round the inclosure. He came back by and by grinning.
"They be all gone, sir, all but this." He held up a pail out of which the handle of a brush was sticking, and a bundle of feathers. "'Twas by the back door, sir."
"Ah! I've a notion. Shut the door and come along, Gumley."
Keeping his feathers well covered, and deepening his voice to the lowest pitch possible, Jack addressed the prisoner, who sat in shivering stillness, his eyes fixed on the vigilant dog.
"Now, Bill Gudgeon, you shall choose. Spend the night with the dog, and go before Squire Bastable to-morrow; or use this brush you came to use—on yourself. 'Twould be a pity to waste such excellent tar."