“Don’t be rash, Gid,” cried his uncle.
The barrister drew near to the sound, which was certainly of a portentous character. In quality it appeared to blend the strains of the cow, the fog-horn, and the mosquito; and the startling manner of its enunciation added incalculably to its terrors. A dark object, not unlike the human form divine, appeared on the brink of the ditch.
“It’s a man,” said Gideon, “it’s only a man; he seems to be asleep and snoring.—Hullo,” he added, a moment after, “there must be something wrong with him, he won’t waken.”
Gideon produced his vestas, struck one, and by its light recognised the tow head of Harker.
“This is the man,” said he, “as drunk as Belial. I see the whole story“; and to his two companions, who had now ventured to rejoin him, he set forth a theory of the divorce between the carrier and his cart, which was not unlike the truth.
“Drunken brute!” said Uncle Ned, “let’s get him to a pump and give him what he deserves.”
“Not at all!” said Gideon. “It is highly undesirable he should see us together; and really, do you know, I am very much obliged to him, for this is about the luckiest thing that could have possibly occurred. It seems to me—Uncle Ned, I declare to heaven it seems to me—I’m clear of it!”
“Clear of what?” asked the Squirradical.
“The whole affair!” cried Gideon. “That man has been ass enough to steal the cart and the dead body; what he hopes to do with it I neither know nor care. My hands are free, Jimson ceases; down with Jimson. Shake hands with me, Uncle Ned—Julia, darling girl, Julia, I——”