The constable saluted and set off on a lonely tramp through the rain. He crossed the footbridge over the beck—the water was nearly level with the stout planks.
“I haven’t seen a wilder night for monny a year,” he muttered. “There’ll be a nice how-d’ye-do if t’ brig is gone afore daylight.”
He trudged the four miles to Nottonby. Nearing the outskirts of the small market town, he was startled by finding the body of a man lying face down in the roadway. The pelting gale had extinguished his lamp. He managed to turn the prostrate form and raise the man’s head. Then, after several failures, he induced a match to flare for a second. One glance sufficed.
“Rabbit Jack!” he growled. “And blind as a bat! Get up, ye drunken swine. ’Twould be sarvin’ ye right te lave ye i’ the road until ye were runned over or caught yer death o’ cold.”
From the manner of P. C. Benson’s language it may be inferred that his actions were not characterized by extreme gentleness. He managed to shake the poacher into semi-consciousness. Rabbit Jack, wobbling on his feet, lurched against the policeman.
“Hello, ole fell’, coom along wi’ me,” he mumbled amiably. “Nivver mind t’ brass. I’ve got plenty. Good soart, George Pickerin’. Gimme me a sov’, ’e did. Fo-or, ’e’s a jolly good feller——”
A further shaking was disastrous. He collapsed again. The perplexed policeman noted a haymew behind a neighboring gate. He dragged the nondescript thither by the scruff of his neck and threw him on the lee side of the shelter.
“He’ll be sober by mornin’,” he thought. “I hev overmuch thrubble aboot te tew mysen wi’ this varmint.”
And so ended the first of the dead man’s bequests.
The gathering of a jury in a country village for an important inquest like that occasioned by George Pickering’s death is a solemn function. Care is exercised in empaneling men of repute, and, in the present instance, several prominent farmers were debarred from service because their children would be called as witnesses.