“I’ll see ye hung or transported yet for the rogue y’are, George Potter!”
“I ’opes not, sir——”
“Hold y’r tongue!”
“Don’t be ’arsh, Mr. Sturton, sir——”
“We know ye for a poachin’, smugglin’ rascal——”
“Poachin’? Smugglin’?... Wot—me?” quoth Mr. Potter in tones of pained surprise. “Mus’ Sturton, if ever you catches Potter a-doin’ one or t’other, I ’opes as you’ll mak’ an’ example of ’im.”
“That’s what we’re here for—look behind ye!” cried Mr. Sturton triumphantly. “Are ye there, Oxham?”
“All ready, Sturton!” boomed a jovial voice, and out from an adjacent twitten stepped five brawny fellows headed by a large, loud man who bore himself with a jaunty truculence and wore his three-cornered hat cocked at a defiant angle. At sight of whom, Sir John frowned slightly: beholding which portent the corporal’s gloom was lifted from him, and, freeing his feet from the stirrups, he prepared for action sudden and swift.
“Why, good-evening, Mus’ Oxham!” said Mr. Potter serenely. “An’ ’ow might Lord Sayle be a-gettin’ along wi’ his wounded arm?”