“Now, you rogues,—now!” Mr. Chelton stormed. “What have ye to say to me? D’ye know this is a matter for Assizes? D’ye know that ye may be hanged for this? D’ye know that at the least ye’ll be shipped overseas? What d’ye think of it, Bradbury?”
“I think, my dear sir,” said Mr. Bradbury, smoothly, “that Kerrick overstates his case. Indeed, so much he overstates it, that did I instruct counsel for the defence of these lads, I promise that it would end with the committal of Kerrick here on a charge of perjury”—Mr. Bradbury laughed shrilly to himself, and took more snuff.
Tim stared at him with his eyes goggling, his jaw dropping. Mr. Chelton growling thunderously, “Upon my soul, Bradbury! Upon my soul!” lurched to the table, and poured himself a glass of wine. Tony and I rejoicing fixed our eyes on Mr. Bradbury.
“Mr. Chelton,” Mr. Bradbury proceeded, “there’s no more in this matter than the roguery of these lads to-night,—a rabbit or so snared; these lads are poachers, and, no doubt, have taken a pretty picking off Chelton. But Kerrick here would lay to their account the poachings of the countryside,—of gipsies, vagrants, village folk and odd. Without a tittle of proof, Mr. Chelton, without a tittle of proof that would hold good in a court of law.”
“Askin’ your pardon, Mr. Bradbury, sir,” Tim protested, “Parson’s son had a rabbit in his pocket, when we caught ’em, and young John Howe was carryin’ summat in his bag. He dropped it over in the furze.”
“Maybe,” said Mr. Bradbury, testily. “We’ll admit these facts, Tim Kerrick, we’ll admit them; but to seek, as you’ve done, my man, to prove against these lads the losses of a year past—losses which you’ve failed to prevent,—why, it’s preposterous, Kerrick,—it’s rank perjury!”
“Have you turned advocate for rogues and vagabonds, Bradbury?” asked Mr. Chelton, solemnly, though his eyes were twinkling once more, as much from the glass of wine, no doubt, as from Tim Kerrick’s indignation and discomfiture.
“Nay, Mr. Chelton,” cried Mr. Bradbury, “only consider the facts! The parson’s son and, doubtless, excellently schooled by his father.”
“Vining’s a worthy fellow,” Mr. Chelton admitted, grinning. “I could tell you a rare story, Bradbury—” but broke off, as recollecting Tony’s presence, yet continuing to chuckle to himself. Mr. Vining, though devout, was a fox-hunting parson after the Squire’s own heart.
“Ay, and the lad Howe?” Mr. Bradbury asked, observing me steadily.