“Mr. Meredith,” said Charles, “I’ve passed my word to Bagby that you’ll pay your share if he’ll but release you, and that you won’t try to prosecute him. Wilt back up my pledge?”
The prisoner, though blue and faint with cold, shook his head obstinately.
“There! I told you how it would be,” sneered Bagby.
“But I tell you he’ll be frosted in another hour. ’T will be nothing short of murder, man.”
“Then let him contribute his share,” insisted Bagby.
“’T is unfair to force a man on a principle.”
“Look here,” growled Bagby. “We are getting tired of your everlasting hectoring and attempting to run everything. Just because you know something of the manual don’t make you boss of the earth.”
The bondsman glanced at the squire, and urged, “Come, Mr. Meredith, you ’d better do it. Think how anxious Mrs. Meredith and—will be, aside from you probably taking a death cold, or losing a hand or foot.”
At last the squire nodded his head, and without more ado Bagby stooped and unlocked the log. Mr. Meredith was so cramped that Charles had to almost lift him to his feet, and then give him a shoulder into the public room of the tavern, where he helped him into a chair before the fire. Then the servant called to the publican:—
“A jorum of sling for Mr. Meredith, and put an extra pepper in it.”