“Martin,” cried a shrill voice from the garth, “is that lookin’ fer eggs?”
Jim Bates’s head and shoulders shot out of sight instantaneously.
“All right, mother, I’m only getting back my lost clothes,” explained Martin. He began a painstaking survey of the hedge bottom and was rewarded by the discovery of a nest of six hidden away by a hen anxious to undertake the cares of maternity.
At breakfast John Bolland was silent and severe. He passed but one remark to Martin:
“Happen you’ll be wanted some time this mornin’. Stop within hail until Mr. Benson calls.”
Mr. Benson was the village constable.
“What will he want wi’ t’ lad?” inquired Mrs. Bolland tartly.
“Martin is t’ main witness i’ this case o’ Pickerin’s. Kitty Thwaites isn’t likely te tell t’ truth. Women are main leears when there’s a man i’ t’ business.”
“More fools they.”
“Well, let be. I’m fair vexed that Martin’s neäm should be mixed up i’ this affair. Fancy the tale that’ll be i’ t’ Messenger—John Bolland’s son fightin’ t’ young squire at ten o’clock o’ t’ neet in t’ ‘Black Lion’ yard—fightin’ ower a lass. What ailed him I cannot tell. He must ha’ gone clean daft.”