“I can answer, sir, for Jack Bell, as who is a uneddicated man, but ain’t a fool, nor yet a rascal.”
“I believe you, and good-by to all of you. The boy must be at my house at sunrise to-morrow morning. He ought to be back by the early afternoon, and if he is not, I myself will go and look for him.”
The Squire then went out and the widow and Jack Bell and Dicky sat and looked at each other, the widow unmindful of the extravagance of burning two candles when there was no distinguished company.
“Well,” said she after a pause, “the boy can’t come to harm just riding between here and Tiverton—do you think so, Mr. Bell?”
Instead of the hearty assurance that the widow expected, Jack looked quite solemn and seemed to avoid an answer. But the widow’s pleading eyes forced a reply out of him.
“’Tain’t the distance, ma’am—that’s neither here nor there—and the boy could leg it easy enough. But horses is ornnateral sort o’ beasts and they’ve got a special spite ag’in sailor men and sailor boys too. I never see a sailor man git on a horse that I didn’t see the four-legged scoundrel kinder look around with a devilish grin, as much as to say: ‘Aha, I’ve got you now! You ain’t a-ridin’ the spanker boom, nor yet the topsail yard, and I’ll bounce you off or bust’—and they most in gin’ally don’t bust. I can’t help feelin’ oneasy about trustin’ him a horseback, ma’am.”
The widow laughed at this and Dicky cried out indignantly:—
“Why, Mr. Bell, I’d just as lief ride anything from an elephant to a goat. ’Tain’t any harder to stick on a horse than it is to hold on to the topsail yard.”
“Yes, it is, boy,” answered Jack with much severity, “and a sight more dangersome. Horses, I tell you, has a spite ag’in sailor men—and they’re mighty cunnin’ in carryin’ out their ill-will. I wish you was goin’ to leg it. That’s all.”