"I don't know whether be the worst--Squire's son or the poacher's son; but this I know, they be both framing for Wakefield gaol, or else the gallows."
"How do ye know it be they, Mr. Click?" asked the constable. "There be noa evidence that I con see, as yet."
"How do I know? Why, there ain't another rascal in the village who dare come into the woods and touch either fish or game since Jem Mason was transported. Nobody dare do it, 'cept these two vagabonds, who are the plague o' my life."
"Aye, the place is wunn'erfully quiet sin' I copt Jem at his old tricks," said Beagle, straightening his shoulders, as he recalled that stirring incident, in which, however, he took a very small part.
"And I do think, constable, that you ain't done your duty lately, to let these two rascals play the pranks they ha' played."
"What's that you say, Mr. Click?" said Beagle, rather testily. "What have they done?"
"Why, 'twas only last Friday that Gaffer John had a dead cat dropped down his chimney, when he was just cooking his supper, too, and it was all spoiled. And who was it that fired Farmer Giles's hayrick, but these same 'gallows-birds'? The young varmint!"
"First catch your man, Mr. Click, and then you'll have evidence 'red-hot' that a bench of magistrates will look at."
"Do you hear that, Jamie?" whispered Jack. "They're on our scent for dropping that dead cat down 'Surly John's' chimney. He deserved it, too, the skulking old miser, for turning poor old Betty Lamb out of her cottage. I'd do it again. But fancy blaming us for firing that hayrick! Surely he can't mean it!"
"I'll tell you what, Jack. This place is getting too warm for us. Let's run away and go to sea, as we always said we should."