“A young varmint!” Tim asserted, vengefully.
“His folk, Mr. Chelton?”
“Mother’s a widow woman—a decent body,” Mr. Chelton answered readily. “Never a day behind with her rent. The lad was well enough till he turned poacher with young Vining there.”
“Village folk? Chelton folk?”
“The mother and the lad have lived here these ten years. From London, I’ve heard say, Bradbury.”
Mr. Bradbury took snuff. “Now, Mr. Chelton,” he said, laughing, “these lads have done no more than a taste of Tim’s ash-plant should have corrected in them. And would have corrected, but that I ordered them to be brought to the Hall,—I’ll have a word with you, sir, presently, on my reason. But for two hours or so they’ve been in Tim’s hands; they’ve been locked up in the dark, maybe, and they’ve been haled before you. The lesson should serve ’em, sir.”
“Ain’t I to baste ’em properly, Squire?” asked Tim, aghast. “They’re varmint—varmint, sir!”
“No doubt,” said Mr. Bradbury. “But they’ll need no further lesson. Admonish them as you will, Mr. Chelton, and send them packing home to make their peace with their folk as they may. It’ll meet the purpose, I promise you. You’ll not be troubled with them again,” and standing up, he laughed shrilly and snapped his snuff-box lid. I realised that Mr. Bradbury’s purpose—to satisfy some passing curiosity—had been fulfilled. He stood peering at me still, his eyes darting like the jewels upon his fingers. “You’re long away from your guests, Mr. Chelton,” he said, with a wave of his hand toward the door.
The Squire hesitated a moment; then, with sudden roaring laughter, cried to us, “Oh, get away home, you dogs! Don’t let me have you here again. Out of this!—No, you don’t, Kerrick! You’ll remain here,” as Tim started for the door, purposing, I assumed, still to exercise justice upon us.
We did not stay to thank the Squire or Mr. Bradbury, but slinking out of the room, scurried through the hall, and presently were racing down the drive apace, lest Kerrick with his ash-plant pursue and overtake us.