“And now, Mr. Oxham, you may depart and do your expected bellowing elsewhere. I find you altogether offensive!... D’ye hear me, fellow—go!”
Mr. Oxham’s large face grew inflamed and seemed to swell larger, and he glared from the indolent figure on the settle to his five uneasy stalwarts; but hard by, the corporal and Mr. Bunkle stood poised for action offensive; in the doorway, Mr. Pym leaned upon his prawning-net, and behind him loomed Messrs. Pursglove and Muddle, while divers faces scowled in at the open lattice. Observing all of which, Mr. Sturton spoke:
“We’d best be going, Oxham. We’ll see no more o’ Potter to-night, I reckon, leastways—not hereabouts. We’d best be going——”
“Go?” roared Oxham. “Not yet, damme!” And, speaking, drew a pistol from his pocket, but, in that moment, down came Mr. Pym’s unerring prawning-net, completely enveloping his head, and thus securely netted he was deftly disarmed by Mr. Bunkle, who, levelling the weapon at the gloomy five, commanded them to begone; which order they promptly obeyed, followed by Sturton and lastly by Mr. Oxham, hustled ignominiously into the street, his head still enveloped in the net, to be greeted by the laughter of all Alfriston, as it seemed.
“We have raised the devil, I fear,” said Mr. Pym, as the hooting and laughter died away. “We shall have Lord Sayle down on us for this, which is bad, and I have lost a very good net—which is worse!”
“But egad, sir,” laughed Sir John, “sure never was net lost to better purpose! You’ll stay to crack a bottle, I hope? You’ll do me the honour, sir?”
“Thank’ee, no, Mr. Derwent. I must be up and away early to-morrow.”
“To paint, sir?”
“To prawn!” answered the painter, his eyes twinkling. “An occupation less lofty, mayhap, but equally absorbing, and often bringing more ultimate comfort and satisfaction.”
“But, sir—surely a picture——”