As day after day passed by, James Courtenay felt more and more miserable: a settled sadness took possession of his mind, varied by fits of restlessness and passion, and he felt that there was something hanging over him, although he could not exactly tell what. It was evident, from the whispers which had reached his ears, that there had been some dreadful circumstances connected with poor Jacob Dobbin's death, but he feared to inquire; and so day after day passed in wretchedness, and there seemed little chance of matters getting any better.
At length a change came in a very unexpected way. As James Courtenay was riding along one day, he saw a pair of bantam fowls picking up the corn about a stack in one of the tenants' yards. The bantams were very handsome, and he felt a great desire to possess them; so he dismounted, and seeing the farmer's son hard by, he asked him for how much he would sell the fowls.
"They're not for sale, master," said the boy; "they belong to my young sister, and she wouldn't sell those bantams for any money,—there isn't a cock to match that one in all the country round."
"I'll give a sovereign for them," said James Courtenay.
"No, not ten," answered Jim Meyers.
"Then I'll take them, and no thanks," said the young squire; and so saying, he flung Jim Meyers the sovereign, and began to hunt the bantams into a corner of the yard.
"I say," cried Jim, "leave off hunting those bantams, master, or I must call my father."
"Your father!" cried the young squire; "and pray, who's your father? You're a pretty fellow to talk about a father; take care I don't bring my father to you;" and having said this, he made a dart at the cock bantam, that he had by this time driven into a corner.
"Look here," said Jim, doubling his fists. "You did a bad job, young master, by Jacob Dobbin; you were the death of him, and I won't have you the death of my little sister, by, maybe, her fretting herself to death about these birds, so you look out, and if you touch one of these birds, come what will of it, I'll touch you."
"Who ever said I did Jacob Dobbin any harm?" asked James Courtenay, his face as pale as ashes; "I never laid a hand upon the brat."