Iver had often been to the squatters' quarters, and he knew very well his direction; but he was now agitated and alarmed.
After a while he reached bushes and could see trees standing black against the sky, and caught the twinkling of lights. Before him was a cottage, and a little garden in front. He opened a wicket and went up to the door and rapped. A call of "Who is there?" in response. The boy raised the latch and entered.
A red peat fire was burning on the hearth, and a man sat by it.
A woman was engaged at needlework by the light of a tallow candle.
"Tom Rocliffe!" exclaimed the boy. "There's been a murder. A sailor—he's dead on the path—there's Bideabout Kink standing by and wants you all to come and help and—here's the baby."
The man sprang to his feet. "A murder! Who's dead?"
"There was a sailor came to our place, it's he."
"Who killed him?"
"Some chaps as was drinking with him, so Bideabout says. They've robbed him—he had a lot of brass."
"Dead—is he?" The man ran out.
"And what have you got there?" asked the woman.