“Ay, and I wish I had kept them cripples.” Sir Robert growled. “All cripples! My father was right, and I was a fool to think better men would do as well, and do us credit. In his time there were but two of the thirteen could read and write; but they did as they were bid. They did as they were bid. And now—well, man, what of Thrush?”
“He was gaoled yesterday by Mr. Forward, of Steynsham, for assault.”
“For how long?”
“For a fortnight, sir.”
Sir Robert nearly had a fit. He reared himself to his full height, and glared at White. “The infernal rascal!” he cried. “He did it on purpose!”
“I’ve no doubt, sir, that it determined them to fight,” the agent answered. “With Dyas they are five. And five to seven is not such—such odds that they may not have some hope of winning.”
“Five to seven!” Sir Robert repeated; and at an end of words, at an end of oaths, could only stare aghast. “Five to seven!” he muttered. “You’re not going to tell me—there’s something more.”
“No, sir, no; that’s the worst,” White answered, relieved that his tale was told. “That’s the worst, and may be bettered. I’ve thought it well to postpone the nomination until Wednesday the 4th, to give Sergeant Wathen a better chance of dealing with Dyas.”
“Well, well!” Sir Robert muttered. “It has come to that. It has come to dealing with such men as butchers, to treating them as if they had minds to alter and views to change. Well, well!”
And that was all Sir Robert could say. And so it was settled; the Vermuyden dinner for the 2nd, the nomination and polling for the 4th. “You’ll let Mr. Vaughan know,” Sir Robert concluded. “It’s well we can count on somebody.”