“Never you trouble about justice, Potter. You can talk o’ that to his lordship. Now, are ye comin’ quiet or no?”
“Quiet!” answered Mr. Potter; “but you’ll be s’kind as to allow me a drink o’ ale first?”
“Not by no manner o’ means!” smiled Mr. Oxham, planting himself before his captive. “You are comin’ along with us, and you’re a-comin’—now!”
“I think not!” said a somewhat high, resonant voice, and, riding from behind the tree, Sir John reined in his horse and sat looking at the group, his chin tilted imperiously, his eyes quick and keen.
“And who,” demanded the large Mr. Oxham, smiling and slapping coat-skirts again—“who the devil are you?”
“Nobody, Oxham,” answered Mr. Sturton. “A no-account youngster as I’ve turned out o’ ‘The Dering Arms’ ... knocked him into the dik’, I did, last time we met——”
“And my name is Derwent!” added Sir John. “And I will not suffer you to drag this man away—now or at any other time.”
Mr. Oxham boomed derisive laughter and flourished his whip for the benefit of the gathering crowd that pressed ever nearer.
“Oh ... you won’t, hey?” he demanded.