“Arthur is out,” he whispered, as he passed the old man’s bedroom.
Ten minutes passed. Then there arose clatter of feet and a shouting.
“Farmer! farmer! your house is a-fire. The thatch be caught alight.”
James opened the window, yawned, and asked what was the matter.
“Father’s asleep,” he said, as if not comprehending them. “He got wet in the brook, and went to bed early. Can’t ye come in the morning?”
But the others soon roused the house.
The thatch had indeed caught over the cellar window; but fortunately it was nearly covered with moss and weeds, and was easily put out.
Then some one noticed the smashed window. “Who was it fired?” they asked. “We heard a shot, and thought it was the swampers. We were watching our sheep and barns. Then we saw this fire in your thatch, and ran. Who was it fired? How came the window smashed like this? How came the thatch alight?” James answered, “He really did not know. He had heard no shot, he slept sound, knew nothing of the thatch being on fire, and they would have been burnt in their beds if it had not been for their kind neighbours.” Old Sibbold stood and shivered in his shirt, his breeches were wet. The neighbours came in.
“I’ll go upstairs and fetch father a blanket to wrap his knees in,” said James. “Father, thee blow the embers up; John Andrews, thee knows where the cellar is: give ’em the key, father, and do you go, John, and draw some cider.”
Away went John Andrews with the lantern, and came back with a face white as a sheet, just as James got downstairs. There was a dead man in the cellar, in a flood of gore and cider!