“Humph! I thought as much!” Then darting a keen inquisitive glance from under his shaggy eyebrows at the prostrate young fellow, he added in his very raspiest tones, “And I daresay you’ve no notion whose sabre carved the wing of the goose so cleverly?”
What little blood was left in his body seemed to mount to the face of Jabez, the old scar on his brow—which every year made less conspicuous—purpled and grew livid. Old Joshua needed no more.
“Ah, I see you do! Well, are you inclined to forgive the fellow this time?”
All ears were on the alert. Jabez caught the quick turn of his kind master’s head. He hesitated, paled, and flushed again. Joshua Brookes waited. There was some indecision in the reply when it did come.
“I am not sure, sir. But he was very drunk. I don’t think he would have done it if he had been sober.”
“Just so, Jabez—just so!” assented Mr. Ashton with evident satisfaction and a tap on his snuff-box-lid.
Ben Travis had revealed the name of Mr. Chadwick’s assailant to the manufacturer, and he to the chaplain.
“Oh! that’s your opinion, is it?” cried the latter, crustily, wheeling sharply round to disguise a smile.—“Here, madam, let’s have a cup of sober tea after that!”
“I think, Mr. Brookes,” said Mrs. Ashton, as she seated herself, “with all due deference to you—I think you ask too much from Jabez. I do not consider drunkenness any excuse for brutality.”