"Let us lose no time," said Mr. Fitzmorris, turning to the man who was standing gaping at him with open mouth and eyes. "My good fellow, can you show me the way to the 'Game Cock?'"
"Why, yees, sir. It's on our way whome, supposing yer goes round the back o' the Heath. Yer sartainly won't find Measter Gilbert there?"
"He is there." And Gerard swung his strong oak stick in the air, and followed his conductor at a rapid pace down a narrow footpath that led across the marshes to Hadstone.
It was a lonely, desolate tract, intersected with wide ditches, full of stagnant water, generally crossed by a single plank.
The sluggish river crept its lazy length to the sea, between high banks of mud, and when the tide was out, its dimensions contracted to a tiny stream, which flowed through a wide bed composed of the same alluvial deposit that filled the air for miles with a rank, fishy smell. A footpath ran along the top of the mud-bank, and Mr. Fitzmorris and his guide followed this till they came to a low stone bridge with one arch, of very ancient structure, which crossed the main-road to London, where the heath sank down to the level of the salt flats. A few paces from the bridge, and below the heath, a low dwelling, composed of wattle and daub, bore the ostentatious sign of a large, fiery, red game cock, in the act of crowing, as if to give notice to the tired pedestrian that he could get refreshments for man and beast, at the house kept by Jonas Striker.
"Well, Measter Fitzmorris, this be the place. An' yer wud know't by the uproar that's going on in the shed, without the help o' the bird that's allers crowing, but never do crow, outside the door. But don't yer hear the crowing an' clapping o' wings o' the bully birds within, an' the shouts o' the men that ha' won on the conqueror!"
Mr. Fitzmorris did not answer. He pushed open the door of which Barnaby had spoken, and entering the yard with a firm, decided step, walked up to the drunken and noisy crowd.
Some drew back as he advanced, as if ashamed of being caught by the parson in such a disreputable place, while others turned and faced him with an audacious stare. Gilbert Rushmere, who was leaning on the rail, cried out in a sneering tone:
"You are too late for the main, parson, but just in time to perform the funeral service over the black cock. There he lies—his last battle ended. As brave a knight as ever wore steel spurs. I'll be chief mourner, for I ventured upon him my last guinea."
Without taking the least notice of this speech, or the ribald crew by whom he was surrounded, Gerard went up to Gilbert, and drew him forcibly apart.