“Skinner, was it, my priceless jewel,” replied Mrs. Margerum, kissing him, “I’ll skin him; but Nosey was there, wasn’t he, my pet?”
“O, yes, Nosey was there,” replied Anthony Thom, “it was him that took me to Ski-Ski-Skinner”—the boy bursting out into a fresh blubber, and rubbing his dirty knuckles into his streaming eyes as he spoke.
“O that Skinner’s a bad un,” gasped Mrs. Margerum, “always said he was a mischievous, dangerous man; but I’ll have satisfaction of both him and old Nosey,” continued she, “or I’ll know the reason why.”
The particulars of the catastrophe being at length related (at least as far as it suited Mrs. Margerum to tell it), the kettle was presently put on the renewed fire, a round table produced, and the usual consolation of the black bottle resorted to. Then as the party sat sipping their grog, a council of war was held as to the best course of proceeding. Lawyer Hindmarch was better versed in the law of landlord and tenant—the best way of a tenant doing his landlord,—than in the more recondite doctrine of master and servant, particularly the delicate part relating to perquisites; and though he thought Sir Moses had done wrong in beating the boy, he was not quite sure but there might be something in the boy being found about the house at an unseasonable hour of the night. Moreover, as farming times were getting dull, and the lawyer was meditating a slope à la Henerey Brown & Co.? he did not wish to get mixed up in a case that might bring him in collision with Sir Moses or his agent, so he readily adopted Mrs. Margerum’s suggestion of going to consult Mr. George Gallon. He really thought Mr. Gallon would be the very man for her to see. Geordey was up to everything, and knew nicely what people could stand by, and what they could not; and lawyer Hindmarch was only sorry his old grey gig-mare was lame, or he would have driven her up to George’s at once. However, there was plenty of time to get there on foot before morning, and they would take care of Anthony Thom till she came back, only she must be good enough not to return till nightfall; for that nasty suspicious Nathan was always prowling about, and would like nothing better than to get him into mischief with Sir Moses.—And that point being settled, they replenished their glasses, and drank success to the mission; and having seen the belaboured Anthony Thom safe in a shakedown, Mrs. Margerum borrowed Mrs. Hindmarch’s second best bonnet, a frilled and beaded black velvet one with an ostrich feather, and her polka jacket, and set off on foot for the Rose and Crown beer-shop, being escorted to their door by her host and hostess, who assured her it wouldn’t be so dark when she got away from the house a bit.
And that point being accomplished, lawyer and Mrs. Hindmarch retired to rest, wishing they were as well rid of Anthony Thom, whom they made no doubt had got into a sad scrape, in which they wished they mightn’t be involved.
A sluggish winter’s day was just dragging its lazy self into existence as Mrs. Margerum came within sight of Mr. Gallon’s red-topped roof at the four lane ends, from whose dumpy chimney the circling curl of a wood fire was just emerging upon the pure air. As she got nearer, the early-stirring Mr. Gallon himself crossed the road to the stable, attired in the baggy velveteen shooting-jacket of low with the white cords and shining pork-butcher’s top-boots of high life. Mr. Gallon was going to feed Tippy Tom before setting off for the great open champion coursing meeting to be held on Spankerley Downs, “by the kind permission of Sir Harry Fuzball, Baronet,” it being one of the peculiar features of the day that gentlemen who object to having their game killed in detail, will submit to its going wholesale, provided it is done with a suitable panegyrick. “By the kind permission of Sir Harry Fuzball, Baronet,” or “by leave of the lord of the manor of Flatshire,” and so on; and thus every idler who can’t keep himself is encouraged to keep a greyhound, to the detriment of a nice lady-like amusement, and the encouragement of gambling and poaching.
Mr. Gallon was to be field steward of this great open champion meeting, and had been up betimes, polishing off Tippy Tom; which having done, he next paid a similar compliment to his own person; and now again was going to feed the flash high-stepping screw, ere he commenced with his breakfast.
Mrs. Margerum’s “hie Mr. Gallon, hie!” and up-raised hand, as she hurried down the hill towards his house, arrested his progress as he passed to the stable with the sieve, and he now stood biting the oats, and eyeing her approach with the foreboding of mischief that so seldom deceives one.
“O Mr. Gallon! O Mr. Gallon!” cried Mrs. Margerum, tottering up, and dropping her feathered head on his brawny shoulder.
“What’s oop? What’s oop?” eagerly demanded our sportsman, fearing for his fair character.