“Ah, fetch a pleeceman an all,” said the man, thrusting the big hay-knife down into the centre of the rick; “but take a soop o’ cyder, maister; I dessay thee feels a bit out o’ sorts loike.”
“Thee darn thief; it be my cyder, too, I’ve a notion.”
“How can it be thine, maister, when thee ha’ sowled un?” said the man with his unanswerable logic: “haw! haw! haw!”
Mrs. Bumpkin held her husband’s hand, and tried her hardest to keep him from using violence towards the man. She felt the convulsive twitches of his strong muscles, and the inward struggle that was shaking his stalwart frame. “Come away, Tom; come away; let
un do as they like, we’ll have them as will see us righted yet. There’s law for un, surely.”
“It beant no use to kick, maister,” said the man, again ramming the knife down into the rick as though he were cutting Mr. Bumpkin himself in half, and were talking to him the while; “it beant no use to kick, maister. Here thee be; thee owes the man the money, and can’t pay, so ur does this out of kindness to prevent thee being sowled oop loike.”
“Here be the pleeceman,” said Mrs. Bumpkin.
Mr. Bumpkin turned suddenly, and shouted, “Tak thic thief into custody.”
The policeman, albeit a country constable, was a very sensible man; and seeing how matters stood, he very wisely set himself to the better task of taking Mr. Bumpkin into custody without appearing to do so, and without Mr. Bumpkin knowing it.
“Now,” said he, “if so be as you will come indoors, Mr. Bumpkin, I think we can put our heads together and see what can be done in this ’ere case; if it’s stealing let him steal, and I’ll have him nicely; but if it ain’t stealing, then I woant have him at all.” (A pause.)