"What do you mean! Let go of him, I say!" Uncle Job demanded, advancing with a determined air.
"Yes, when I've delivered him to the justice, as the summons says, an' not before; so don't git red in the face or meddle," the constable answered, facing Uncle Job and straightening up.
"The summons! What summons? There is some mistake, man! No one has issued a summons for him, for we haven't been here five minutes."
"You've another guess, my friend. I only know what I know, an' as the fee is small I'm not 'tending night-school to increase my learnin'. So stand back an' don't interfere," the constable answered, good-naturedly, but as one in the right.
"What reason is there for issuing the summons? Surely you must know that?" Uncle Job asked, bewildered.
"I don't know what he's done, nor why; but mebbe Pickle there can tell you. He knows everything," Blott answered, nodding toward the little man in gray, who now stepped forward and spoke up with great show of authority.
"The lad is a runaway, and is to be taken back to his home; and the justice's summons is to secure that and nothing more."
"No justice has any authority to meddle with him," exclaimed Uncle Job, angrily. "Moreover, what interest have you in the matter?"
"As to the right of the justice to meddle, that is a matter for him to determine, having possession of the boy. For myself, sir, I am a lawyer, and come here at the instance of my client to regain possession of her ward."
"Oh, rot!" Uncle Job exclaimed, in great wrath. "No one has a right to make any such claim. But come, officer, we are losing time, and nothing will come of standing here wrangling. Take us to the justice, so that the matter can be explained and the lad released."