“Bring this lad to the Hall.”
“After I’ve basted him, sir?”
“Let the penalty be suspended. Later, maybe. Jacket or breeches then, as you will,” said Mr. Bradbury, chuckling. “Who’s the other lad?”
“Parson’s son, sir,—young Vining.”
“Bring them both before Mr. Chelton at the Hall,” Mr. Bradbury ordered. “It’s only just that they should suffer equally, as Mr. Chelton thinks fit; one’s as culpable as the other. Bring them both after me, Kerrick! Now, my man, go ahead with the lantern.”
Wrapped in his cloak, hat pressed down over his brows, Mr. Bradbury went up the road, leaving Tim to curse, since justice and an overdue vengeance on our skins had been taken arbitrarily from his hands.
Chapter II. At the Hall
It was dark long before Tony and I were marched up the drive to the Hall. The great house stood out a grey mass against the starry sky; the windows fronting us were golden with light; and light flowed from the open door and down the steps. I heard loud laughter; the Squire had company, as he might any night of the week. He favoured fox-hunting gentlemen of a like pattern to himself, seasoned to drink under the table any gentleman of fashion and Tory out of session who should quit the Town for the hospitality of Chelton. Hearing the voices and the laughter, and seeing the blaze of light from the dining-room, I had little fear of the temper of Mr. Chelton, before whom Tony and I were presently to be haled. None the less, for the thought that the Squire might think fit to parade us before his company to provide sport for them, I would have begged Tim Kerrick to deal with us summarily; I would have endured the ash-plant about me for all my seventeen years of age but that the sudden interest of Mr. Bradbury had excited my natural curiosity. I pictured Mr. Bradbury standing by us, chuckling to himself, and his piercing look, while the lantern light was playing across my face; and I recalled his queer, sharp tone when he ordered me to be brought on to the Hall. What should the gentleman want with me? Squire’s family lawyer, Tim told me, gruffly, in answer to my eager question. How we should fare with Mr. Chelton was of less concern.
I knew Mr. Chelton for a good-humoured gentleman. I did not fear that, though Tony and I had been found poaching on his preserves, the Squire would do worse than bid Tim Kerrick dress us down with his ash-plant. I did not dread committal, the Assizes and the terror of their Lordships, the Judges. Indeed, I believed that unseen I had dropped the hare out of sight in the furze; and I took it that Tony had long since rid himself of the rabbit from his pocket. Only when we were before the house did I find the chance of a word with Tony. Tim, loosing his grip then, and staring up doubtfully at the door, as if not knowing whether or not to conduct us before the Squire and Mr. Bradbury immediately, I poked my head forward and whispered to Tony, “Did you get rid of that rabbit?”
He whispered back, “No! It’s stuck in my pocket;” but he could add nothing, for Tim gripped me instantly, and shook me, with the observation: “No talkin’! If it’s the rabbit you’re thinkin’ of, it’s in his pocket yet, for I’ve felt it there. And I saw you drop the bag with, belike, another inside. So don’t go thinkin’ yourself clever, John Howe! It’s gaol, or transportation, or at the very least a basting you’ve never felt the like of, and’ll never want to feel again. Squire’s at dinner. You’ll wait till Squire’s dined and wined, you will.”