"Of course it is!" "I'd a' done it myself!" "Damn them motors!" muttered the chorus, fiercely.
"If so be the motor 'ad gone on, Tom couldn't never 'ave caught up with it, even if he'd run till he dropped," went on the farmer—"but as luck would 'ave it, the thing broke down nigh to Blue Anchor, and Tom got his chance. Which he took. And—he killed this Lord Wrotham, whoever he is,—stuck him in the throat with a knife as though he were a pig!"
There was a moment's horrified silence.
"So he wor!" said one man, emphatically—"A right-down reg'lar road-hog!"
"Then,"—proceeded the farmer, carefully studying the paper again—"Tom, 'avin' done all his best an' worst in this world, gives himself up to the police, but just 'afore goin' off, asks if he may kiss his dead baby,——"
A long pause here ensued. Tears stood in many of the men's eyes.
"And," continued the farmer, with a husky and trembling voice—"he takes the child in his arms, an' all sudden like falls down dead. God rest him!"
Another pause.
"And what does the paper say about it all?" enquired one of the group.
"It says—wait a minute!—it says—'Society will be plunged into mourning for Lord Wrotham, who was one of the most promising of our younger peers, and whose sporting tendencies made him a great favourite in Court circles.'"