The man snarled a threat, whereupon my uncle rapped him again.
"The paper—do you hear—animal?"
The man rubbed his neck, muttered an oath, and gave the wisp of paper to my uncle, who, without glancing at it, took off his hat and bowed his head.
"Poor soul!" he sighed gently, his impassive face transfigured by an extraordinary tenderness. "Poor frightened, weary soul—so young, so very young, and now fled—whither? Poor—poor child—Stop! Keep your beastly hands off her!" This to the bull-necked fellow, who flinched and drew away, snarling.
"Lumme, me lord!" whined the second man, a small, mean person. "What's ye game? She's ourn—we found 'er, Job an' me—seen 'er out in th' race, us did, floatin' s' pretty, an' folleyed 'er, us did, 'til she came ashore. She b'longs t' us, me lord, as Job'll swear—to diskiver a corp' means money, an' corpses, 'specially sich pretty 'uns, don't come often enough—"
"Pah!" cried my uncle. "There is a hurdle over yonder, fetch it—you!" The bull-necked fellow rose, but, instead of complying, turned short and sprang, an open knife in his hand; my uncle Jervas stepped lightly aside, his long arm shot out, and the bull-necked man went down heavily; he was in the act of rising when my uncle set his foot upon the man's knife-hand, placidly crushed and crushed it until he roared, until the gripping fingers relaxed their hold, whereupon my uncle kicked the knife into the river.
"And now—beast—fetch the hurdle yonder!" said he.
So the men brought the hurdle and my uncle, stripping off his fine surtout, made therewith a pillow for the beautiful, piteous head.
"And now, where shall we take her?" he demanded.
"There's an ale-'us down yonder, me lord, nice an' 'andy," answered the little man. "Us gen'ally takes 'em theer."