“There’s times, James, when Arthur wants libbing of his tongue,” he growled. “Two at Ouse Bridge now ... he’s daft. He cuts our dies well enough; but look here—right in our midst!” He rapped with the back of his hand on the proclamation.
James Eastwood, a lean man, with a cracked and wrinkled and sly face, laughed softly.
“Leave the bills to John Emmason,” he said; “John knows what he’s about when he sticks bills up. The more bills the more safety.—Did ye ever see aught more like a frog nor yon?”
“That daft talk o’ Arthur’s! There’s more fox in Arthur’s cap than in all the rest of him put together. Listen to him now!” And again the voice of the big red man was heard.
“...That may be; but many of them saw Charles Edward in the ’45, in Manchester. For that matter, his drummer was a Horwick lad; there’s a tale about that I’ll tell you some time. But King or Elector, it’s small odds now, and I shouldn’t wonder (this, of course, is unofficial) but my own word carried as much weight in Back o’ th’ Mooin as another man’s.—Our Piece Hall is considered a fine building. The statue in the niche is of Queen Anne; a good piece of work, take an engraver’s word for it.—The market is very late.—Ah, let me make you known to John Emmason, one of our magistrates. You and he will doubtless work in some measure together....”
The bailiff had now opened his books, and the Back o’ th’ Mooiners were unpacking their budgets on the pieceboards. The market was opening tardily. The huge red-whiskered man in the foxskin cap continued to present the new exciseman here and there, and then the bailiff’s clerks began to pass more busily between the pieceboards. Quickly the talk and laughter fell to a low murmur of exchange; and presently Monjoy said, “Come, a morning draught at the ‘Cross Pipes.’ What say you?”
The eyes beneath the bruised-looking lids blinked up at Monjoy.
“Certainly, certainly, certainly; but I fear I must confess—hn! hn!—that I have a weakly stomach. The weakest glass of brandy and water—a very little excess—ah!” His narrow chest rose in a quick little sigh.
“Ay? Well, Huggins was the other way. ‘Four-in-Hand Huggins,’ we called him; but it beat him at the finish. Come.”
Half-way down the market-place Monjoy stopped to exchange a word with Matthew Moon. “Ay, eight o’clock, in the kitchen,” Moon grunted, and Monjoy nodded and returned to Jeremy Cope. They passed almost unnoticed into the “Cross Pipes.”