'I know that he will,' answered the cattle-jobber, 'but not the other, unless he be fetched.'
'Well, let him be fetched.'
'That is,' said the Parson, 'if he will come.'
There was then, leaning against the inn door, a ragged fellow with a wooden leg, and a stump of an arm into which a hook was screwed—a fellow with a roguish eye, a bald head, and a black full beard. Tom Crout lived on any little odd jobs given him by the farmers to keep him off the parish. He had lost his leg and arm through the explosion of a gun when out poaching. Now he drove bullocks to pasture, cows to be milked, sheep to the common, and wired rabbits. This was the proper man to send after Taverner Langford.
'You may ride my pony,' said the cattle-jobber, 'and so be quicker on your way.'
'And,' said the guardian of the poor, 'you shall dine on the leavings and drink the heel-taps for your trouble.'
As he went on his way, Crout turned over in his mind how he was to induce Taverner Langford to come to the dinner. Crout was unable to comprehend how any man needed persuasion to draw him to goose, beef, and plum-pudding.
On his way he passed Hillary Nanspian, in his badger-skin waistcoat with red lappets, riding his strawberry mare. He was on his way to the 'Ring of Bells.'
'Whither away, Crout?' shouted Hillary.
'Out to Broadbury, after Farmer Burneby's sheep that have broken.'