“Musketry, Robbie?” exclaimed Sir Hector. “Musketry, d’ye say?”
“The same, sir!”
“Did I no’ tell ye, Peter man, did I no’ tell ye? There’s murder afoot! And a’ by reason o’ that de’il Sayle, damn him!”
Silently Mr. Bunkle led the way into his unlighted tap-room and, opening the wide lattice, they stood there in the dark, hearkening with straining ears; and presently, borne upon the wind from afar, came the faint report of firearms, four or five shots in rapid succession.
“That’ll be ’twixt here an’ Exeat, I rackon,” quoth Mr. Bunkle.
“O man!” cried Sir Hector bitterly, “is it no’ a fearfu’ thocht that Sussex lads—aye, neighbours belike, may be murderin’ each ither?”
“Why, sir,” answered Mr. Bunkle, “it be only the sojers, d’ye see——”
“The soldiers!” exclaimed Sir Hector, “and ’tis Sayle hath brought ’em! Look’ee, John, hitherto all men, coastguard, preventive and trader, being Sussex men, have lived together like brothers—which, according to ‘The Word,’ is a vera desirable an’ blessed thing, y’ ken, John—not that I haud wi’ the nee-farious traffic, mind ye, but ... but ... aweel, damn Sayle, onyway!”
“’Eartily, sir! But never worrit,” admonished Mr. Bunkle philosophically. “Arter arl, it be only sojers a-shootin’ in the dark ... an’ even roses ’as thorns, sir, and——” Here Mr. Bunkle paused as more shots rang out.