“Save’s a’!” exclaimed Sir Hector, “the man Sayle is unco’ serious an’ damnably determined.... A hundred pounds! Losh, man, ’twill be an awfu’ temptation tae the avereecious. How think ye, Peter?”
“Why, I think, sir, as that theer hundred pound will go a-beggin’——”
“But ... a hundred pounds, man——!”
“Aye,” nodded Mr. Bunkle as he refolded the bill, “’tis a sight o’ money, I rackon; Jarge ought to be a proud man this day! ’Twill be the gumboo as usual, sirs?”
Now when their glasses were empty and Sir Hector had fared unwillingly homewards, Sir John, being alone, took out the battered snuff-box to view it once again in keen-eyed scrutiny, more especially the lid; for there, scratched faintly on the horn, were these two initials:
J. S.
CHAPTER XXXIV
CONCERNS ITSELF WITH ONE OF THE MANY MYSTERIES OF THE ‘MARKET CROSS INN’
In these sleepy summer days, while Alfriston drowsed about its business, High Dering opened doors and lattices far wider than usual to behold a troop of workmen who, with planks, poles, ladders and other paraphernalia, descended upon Dame Haryott’s little cottage.
These workmen, though Londoners and therefore “foreigners” in Sussex, to be watched suspiciously and askance, were nevertheless cheery souls who whistled and sang and cracked jokes with old Penelope what time they thatched and glazed and painted. In the midst of which business down came Mr. Sturton bristling with outraged authority, who loudly demanded to know by what right and by whose permission they dared thus violate the dignity of rotting thatch and sanctity of decaying wall; whereupon he was shown a paper signed by a certain name that caused him to open his eyes very wide and close his mouth very tight and walk away vastly thoughtful.