“Anne Clarke,” repeated the trooper vacantly; the name awakened no response in his memory.
“Why, don’t you know,” cried Sam, “your little charmer of the Roebuck Inn—a regular beauty, Mr. Willcocks. Your beauty, you know. Why I understood you was a-going to take her to South Africa wi’ you.”
“What the devil are you at?” cried Willcocks irritably. “What do you mean by talking all that rubbish to me?”
“No you don’t,” cried Sam, “I’m not to be put off like that, Trooper Willcocks. I’m here on behalf of that very lady—if the matter can be settled private, so much the better; if not, she’s determined to take it into court.”
A sudden pallor overspread the yeoman’s visage, perceptible even beneath its tan; he was a soft young fellow in spite of all his daring, and the very name of the law-courts terrified him.
“The fact is,” said Cross jovially, “you haven’t no very clear rec’lection of it, I dessay—you’re such a one with the ladies aren’t you? But sometimes a chap goes too far—an’ when it comes to making a reg’lar proposal of marriage—you’ll find you’ll have to stick to it, or else be let in for more than you bargained for.”
“But really,” said the other, almost piteously, “I’ve no notion at all o’ what you’re drivin’ at. Who is Anne Clarke, an’ where did I meet her?”
Sam drew nearer and button-holed him confidentially.
“You know the Roebuck Inn, over the downs yonder? You went there last Toosday with one or two friends—an’ you carried on fearful with the old man’s daughter—a beauty, I tell ye. You was a bit on at the time, but you must remember.”
“I remember goin’ there,” admitted Willcocks, “but I can’t call to mind no young gal.”