“Have no truck wi’ un, I tell ee; don’t speak to un. Thee be my head witness, and doant dare goo away; no, no more un if—”
“No fear,” said Joe. “’Taint likely I be gwine to
listen to ee. I knows what he wants; he’s arter listin chaps.”
“Look ee ere, Joe, if ur speaks to thee, jist say I beant sich a fool as I looks; that’ll ave un.”
“Right,” says Joe; “I beant sich a fool as I looks; that’ll ave un straight.”
“Now, take heed; I’m gwine into the parlour wi’ Landlord.”
Accordingly, into the little quiet snuggery of Mr. Oldtimes, Mr. Bumpkin betook himself. And many and many an agreeable evening was passed with Mr. and Mrs. Oldtimes during the period when Mr. Bumpkin was waiting for his trial. For Mr. and Mrs. Oldtimes being Somersetshire people knew many inhabitants of the old days in the village of Yokelton, where Mr. Bumpkin “were bred and born’d.”
Meanwhile the “head witness” had returned to the cheerful scene in the taproom, and sat leering out of the corners of his eyes upon the Sergeant, as though he expected every moment that officer would make a spring at him and have him upon the floor. But the Sergeant was not a bullying, blustering sort of man at all; his demeanour was quiet in the extreme. He scarcely looked at anyone. Simply engaged in warming his hands at the cheerful fire, no one had cause to apprehend anything from him.
But a man, Sergeant or no Sergeant, must, out of common civility, exchange a word now and then, if only about the weather; and so he said, carelessly,—
“Sharp weather, lads!”