"Nor even winged, Mr. Shrig."
"Fate," said Mr. Shrig, shaking a dejected head at him, "Fate is a werry wexed problem, sir! 'Ere's you now, Number Three, as I might say, the unfort'nate wictim as was to be—'ere you are a-valking up to Fate axing to be made a corp', and vot do you get? not so much as a scrat—not a westige of a scrat, v'ile another unfort'nate wictim vill run avay from Fate, run? ah! 'eaven's 'ard! and werry nat'ral too! and vot does 'e get? 'e gets made a corp' afore 'e knows it. No, sir, Fate's a werry wexed problem, sir, and I don't understand it, no, nor ever shall."
"But this was very simple," said Barnabas, slipping his hand in Mr. Shrig's arm, and leading him away from the barn, "very simple indeed, I got here before they came, and hid in the loft. Then, while they were waiting for me down below, you came and frightened them away."
"Ah! So they meant business, did they?"
"Yes," said Barnabas, nodding grimly, "they certainly meant business, —especially Mr. Chich—"
"Ssh!" said Mr. Shrig, glancing round, "call 'im Number Two. Sir, Number Two is a extra-special, super-fine, over-weight specimen, 'e is. I've knowed a many 'Capitals' in my time, but I never knowed such a Capital o' Capital Coves as 'im. Sir, Vistling Dick vas a innercent, smiling babe, and young B. is a snowy, pet lamb alongside o' Number Two. Capital Coves like 'im only 'appen, and they only 'appen every thousand year or so. Ecod! I 'm proud o' Number Two. And talking of 'im, I 'appened to call on Nick the Cobbler, last night."
"Oh?"
"Ah! and I found 'im vith 'is longest awl close 'andy—all on account o' Number Two."
"How on his account?" demanded Barnabas, frowning suddenly.
"Vell, last evening, Milo o' Crotona, a pal o' Nick's, and a werry promising bye 'e is too, 'appened to drop in sociable-like, and it seems as Number Two followed 'im. And werry much Number Two frightened that 'andsome gal, by all accounts. She wrote you a letter, vich she give me to deliver, and—'ere it is."