“Why, then, break away, an’ a bloody end t’ye, James Sturton!” answered old Penelope, sipping her tea with relish.
A stick shivered one of the few remaining panes of glass in the lattice, and Mr. Oxham’s voice boomed:
“You shall suffer for it, Pen Haryott, when us do come in!”
“Bah!” she laughed in fierce derision. “I be used to suffering!” Here the stout door shook to a fierce blow that seemed the signal for others, for there began a furious battering.
“Sit still, young man,” cried old Penelope above the din, for Sir John had risen—“sit ye still! ’Tis a strong door an’ should hold ’em till we ha’ finished our tea-drinking, I rackon.”
“But,” answered he, as the hammering momentarily subsided, “it seems shameful to permit them to destroy your property——”
“My property!” cried she. “Mine? Lord, you must be a gurt fool of a young man!”
“Howbeit,” he answered, “we will endeavour to quiet ’em; their noise offends me.” So saying, Sir John drew the bolts and, turning the massive key, flung the door wide and thus came face to face with Mr. Oxham supported by some half-score sturdy fellows who crowded the little front garden and kept back the throng of excited villagers.
“Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Oxham, recoiling a step, “so ’tis you again, is it?”
Sir John affably admitted the fact.