"You see 'is Worship Sir Peregrine Beverley, Baronet, an' Justice o' the Peace—you? Ecod! that's a good un—danged if it ain't! An' what might you be wishful to do when ye see 'im—which ye won't?"
"Fetch back Jarge, o' course."
"Old Un, you must be crazed in your head, arter Jarge killin' four keepers—Sir Peregrine's own keepers too—shootin' 'em stone dead, an' three more a-dyin'—"
"John," said the Ancient, shaking his head, "that's the worst o' bein' cursed wi' ears like yourn—"
"My ears is all right!" returned John, frowning.
"Oh, ah!" chuckled the old man, "your ears is all right, John—prize ears, ye might call 'em; I never seed a pair better grow'd—never, no!"
"A bit large, they may be," growled John, giving a furtive pull to the nearest ambush, "but—"
"Large as ever was, John!" nodded the Ancient—"oncommon large! an', consequent, they ketches a lot too much. I've kep' my eye on them ears o' yourn for thirty year an' more, John—if so be as they grows any bigger, you'll be 'earin' things afore they're spoke, an'—"
John gave a fierce tug to the ambush, muttered an oath, and, lashing up his horse, disappeared down the road in a cloud of dust.
"'Twere nigh on four year ago since Black Jarge thrashed John, weren't it, Simon?"