“They nigh ’ad me once, Pen ... but I slipped ’em ... t’other side the ... ’anging wood. But I’ve gotten an ’are for ye ... a praper big ’un as I took ... in Dering Park and ... by the Pize!” he exclaimed as, turning, he espied my lady.
Mr. Potter was hardly himself, for his hat was gone, his clothes were torn and stained with the mud and green slime of damp hiding-places, while his unkempt hair clung in elf-locks about an unshaven face, grimed with dust and streaked with sweat; moreover, beneath one arm he carried a short, though very formidable bludgeon.
“Who is this horrid person?” demanded my lady, and took up the boiling kettle in her defence.
“By Goles!” ejaculated Mr. Potter, and, eyeing her heroic proportions and determined air, retreated to the door.
“Rose,” said Sir John, intervening, “it is my joy to present my friend, Mr. George Potter. Mr. Potter—Mrs. Rose!”
“Friend?” she repeated. “Your friend? Is he a murderer or merely a thief?”
“Neither, child. He is simply a friend o’ mine temporarily embarrassed by—circumstances.”
Mr. Potter made a leg and touched an eyebrow in polite salutation, and diving into the inner mysteries of the frieze coat, brought thence a large hare, which he laid upon the little dresser. Quoth he, “Theer ’e be, Pen! ’E should keep ’ee goin’ for a day or so, I rackon.”
“Aye, Jarge, an’ thank’ee!”