“Wot—me?” croaked the old man fiercely. “Me ’ale an’ ’earty! Lordy-lord, young man, ’ee must be a gert fule not t’see as oi du be waastin’ away an’ perishin’ wi’ a disease no doctor nor ’poth’cary can cure. There be ’poth’cary Mayfield, over tu Lewes, sez tu me: ‘’Osea Dumbrell,’ ’e sez, ‘if I wuz tu give ’ee arl th’ drugs in my shop they wouldn’t do ’ee no manner o’ good!’ ’e sez. An’ no wonder, for my disease bean’t no ordinary disease—no! My disease, young man, be a musket-ball in my in’ards as won’t come out no-’ow!”
“A musket-ball!” exclaimed Sir John, staring.
“Ah—in me in’ards!” nodded the old man triumphantly; “as won’t come out! An’ ’twixt you an’ me, a preventive bullet it were. Ketched me ’ere ’twixt wind an’ watter, it did! Six-an’-fifty years ago come Martinmas, an’ brings up agin me backbone wi’ a crack as nigh deafened me; ah, it be gert wonder as it didn’t kill oi stone-dead!”
“Indeed, yes!” murmured Sir John.
“An’ theer it du bide ever since, young man. I can feel it! Whens’ever oi walks tu fast or coughs a spell, that theer old musket-ball goes a-rollin’ an’ a-rattlin’ about in me pore old in’ards summat crool, lordy-lord! Las’ toime I seed Doctor Blake, t’ surgeon, about ’un, ’e shook ’is ’ead solemn-loike: ‘You’m a-goin’ t’ die, ’Osea Dumbrell,’ ’e sez. ‘Aye,’ I sez, ‘so be you, doctor, but as fur oi—when?’ ‘When ye du,’ ’e sez, ‘’twill be mortal sudden!’ ’e sez. That wur years an’ years ago, an’ ’ere be I alive an’ kickin’.... Doan’t seem right some’ow, fur doctor be mortal knowin’. But I doan’t look much loike dyin’, du I?
“No, indeed!” answered Sir John. “And you are surely the neatest, smartest——”
“That’ll du—that’ll du!” croaked the ancient man angrily. “’Tidn’t my fault! Don’t ’ee go a-blamin’ of oi—blame me granddarter Ann! Her du be for ever a-washin’ an’ a-breshin’ an’ a-cleanin’ o’ me, till it be gert wonder ’er don’t scrub me into me grave! Combed all th’ ’air off’n me ’ead, she ’ave, an’ now combin’ out arl me whiskers—what be left of ’em! ’Tidn’t respectful—no! ’Ef ’ee du get dirty,’ ’er sez tu me, ‘no baccy!’ ’er sez—a crool ’ard creeter be me granddarter Ann! Look at me boots, so bright an’ shinin’—I dassent go a-nigh a bit o’ mud! An’ I loike mud—leastways a bit o’ mud don’t nowise ’arm nobody, an’ when it be forbid I could waller in it, j’yful—ah, an’ I will one o’ these days an’ dang arl! A crool, flinty-’earted, brimstone witch be my granddart——”
“Granfer!” called a soft voice at no great distance. “Granfer!”
“By goles!” ejaculated the ancient; and skipping down from the stile with surprising agility, he was in the act of brushing imaginary dust from his immaculate smock-frock when round a bend in the lane there appeared a shapely young woman who, coming thus unexpectedly upon Sir John, blushed very prettily and dropped him a curtsy, then turned to glance at one standing immediately behind her, a tall, square-shouldered, powerful-looking fellow who, meeting Sir John’s quick, bright glance, flushed also, from square chin to the curls of very neat wig that showed beneath neat hat, and, flushing, bowed, though remarkably stiff in the back about it.