‘Tom stands there aal a-gliff wi’ terror, half dazed, not kennin’ whether he can have seen or heard aright; then, pullin’ hissel’ together, walks slowly thither to see if any trace can be seen of horse or rider.
‘But there wasn’t a one—neither o’ horse nor Squire—nowt but a tramplin’ o’ horse’s hoofs an’ a white gash as o’ a half horse-shoe on a big boulder o’ rock two feet below the surface t’other side. Sae Tom gans slowly back, an’ doon to the Squire’s house to find if he can hear anything ov him doon there; for he half hoped it might be a sort o’ dream after aal.
‘Just as he gets to the door a figure comes up the drive leadin’ to the house, draggin’ a lame horse after him, an’ “Ha ye seen anything o’ the Squire?” it shouts at him. “No-o,” says Tom, startled-like, “that was just what I was comin’ to ask for myself;” an’ he peers through the shadows to see who his questioner could be, an’ recognises Master Fred, the Squire’s cousin, bleedin’ frae a wound i’ the head, an’ leadin’ a horse wi’ two fearfu’ broken knees.
‘He win his wager,’ concluded my companion slowly, ‘but after that ride he was never the lad he had been before, an’ perhaps it’s scarcely likely that he should be, I’m thinkin’.’
À L’OUTRANCE
We were standing on the fencing-room floor—Jake Carruthers and I—leaning our backs against the armoury, our foils still in our hands, slowly recovering our breath, after a rapier and dagger contest which had lasted a good half-hour.
He was much less ‘winded’ than myself, for all his sixty-five years; and as I had positively worn myself out against his iron wrist I was delighted to gain a breathing space, and occupied the time in drawing out from my companion some old-time memories of the fencing floor.
‘Have you ever seen a duel?’ I inquired. ‘I don’t mean a semi-drunken, nose-chopping bout, or a garden-party affair, with coffee and liqueurs, as in France, but a genuine “throat-cutting, blood-letting” matter, such as Porthos or D’Artagnan would have loved?’
‘No,’ replied Jake reflectively, drawing the length of his foil lovingly along the soft sleeve of his jacket; ‘the time’s past, I doubt, for that sort of performance. The Divorce Court is what “my lord” appeals to nowadays for “satisfaction,” and Trimmer Joe or Bricklayer Tom, they just “bash” the trespasser upon their family preserves on the head, and there’s an end on’t.