“Mr. Charles Craike,” growled Roger, “I tell you I’ll not endure too much from you or any other man. I’ll serve you when I will, and as it suits me. Set the runners on to me—ay, set them—it won’t be the first time by a many as I’ve shown ’em a clean pair of heels. I’ve an affair of my own callin’ me miles from here; I should have been off long since.”
“Peace, fool!” said Mr. Craike, contemptuously.
“And listen to me,” Roger blustered, “if you’d peach on me, I know enough to pull you down.”
“My good Roger Galt,” said my uncle, laughing easily. “I’m not questioning that you’ve served me as well this night as you’ve served me on any other occasion. And I’ll pay you well, as I’ve paid you always. Where’s the boy, Martin?”
“Fast up above,” Martin replied.
“And Bradbury?”
“Lying in the road like a dead man when we left him.”
“I trust,” said Mr. Craike, piously, “that you’ve done him no hurt beyond repair.”
“No more than he did himself,” said Martin, laughing. “He’d a pair of barkers with him, when the coach pulled up. He fell out into the road; his pistols fired; and he lay there in the mire.”
“And you took the boy and have him safely here. Ay, ay.”