“The sojers, Peter!” quoth Mr. Muddle. “’Tis the sojers a-comin’ back again!”
“’Tis Jarge!” added Mr. Pursglove dolefully. “’Tis pore Jarge Potter ... runnin’ fur ’is loife.... An’ us caan’t do nowt fur ’ee——” Even as he spoke was the sound of a distant shot.
“Not ’ere, ye caan’t!” answered Mr. Bunkle, shaking his head. “So off wi’ ye, lads!”
Hereupon the five doors opened, closed, and the three were alone again.
“Peter Bunkle,” cried Sir Hector, “Peter—man, though a’ the warld kens I’m no smuggler the noo, yet if Geordie Potter’s taken they shall tak’ me too!”
“Nay, Sir Hector, what’ll be the good o’ that?” demurred Mr. Bunkle, following him out into the tap-room.
“Whisht, man—hark’ee!”
The running feet were much closer now; on they came in wild career, though every now and then they seemed to falter oddly.
“B’ the Powers—’e’ll never do it!” cried Mr. Bunkle. “’Ark ’ow ’e runs—he’m wounded!”