Yes, Dering of Dering was home again and, mindful of the treatment it had accorded John Derwent, High Dering was aghast; its women lamented to all and sundry, its men shook gloomy heads, but none more despondent than Thomas Nixon, landlord of ‘The Dering Arms.’
“To think,” sighed he, “to think as I stood ’ere an’ watched Sir John turned out o’ his very own inn off his very own land! Mak’s me goo arl ’ot and shiversome it du, neighbours!”
“But then ’ow was ’ee to know ’twas ’im, Tom?” quoth one of his hearers. “’Ow was any on us to know?”
“Bah!” snarled the ancient Dumbrell, rapping the table with his knobbed stick and getting upon quavering legs. “Everybody ’old their tongues an’ ’ark to oi!”
“Aye, but ’ow was anybody to know. Gaffer? ’Ow?”
The Aged Soul snorted disdainfully.
“’Ow was you t’ know?” he repeated. “Whoy by instink fur sure, same as oi did! What if ’e called hisself Derwent an’ wore a little wig an’ no goold braid onto ’is ’at? Oi knowed ’e wur quality moment oi seed ’im, oi did, fur a gen’leman be arlways a gen’leman!”
“Why that be true enough, Gaffer, but——”
“Hesh!” snarled the Aged Soul. “Don’t goo fur to arg’ wi’ oi! As fur you, Tom Nixon, ‘whatsoever a man sows that shall ’e rip!’ You let ’em turn Sir John Dering out o’ ‘The Dering Arms’ an’ it be only nat’ral as Sir John Dering’ll turn you out likewise.”
“Doan’t ’ee say so, Gaffer!” pleaded the mournful landlord.