“Now you, Bunkle, look’ee here!” boomed Mr. Oxham, whip a-flourish. “We know as there’s a cargo to be run to-night somewheres——”
“Cargo?” repeated Mr. Bunkle, vastly astonished. “Oh? What of? Run where?”
“You know that well enough, Bunkle, but no matter! We want Potter. Lord Sayle knows ’e be one o’ the ringleaders, and he’s sent us to tak’ him, and tak’ him we will.”
“Well, then, tak’ him,” nodded Mr. Bunkie, “an’ I’ll get back to my cookin’—as fine a jugged-’are——”
“Where is he? Speak up!”
“Who?”
“Why, Potter, damme!”
“Lord, bean’t ye a-tellin’ me as he be vanished, an’ if he be vanished, I suppose vanished ’e be——”
“Where to, dang ye—where?”
“’Ow should I know?” sighed Mr. Bunkle. “An’ that theer jugged-’are nigh ready to be dished—’ow should any one know? Arl as I do know is as theer be strange ’appenings ’ereabouts, aye, that there be; country’s full o’ arl manner o’ unnat’ralness—visions, spekiters—Mus’ Sturton seen a phanitum only t’other night; didn’t ye, Mus’ Sturton?”