“Fine fun if he had choked you all! but never mind!” returned the squire, “a joke is a joke, and a bet is a bet; and I have come to pay mine.”
Scarcely had he uttered these magnanimous sentiments, that proved him worthy of the Grand Master’s chair in a society of laughing philosophers, than the booted bull, Bishop, gravely approached, with our hero on his back. A fresh explosion now burst from the party, to note the stately and apparently conceited paces of the buskind king of the kine, who now wore his boots with toes foremost, like any other gentleman; but none laughed so heartily as Prothero himself, who seemed in raptures to find his bull unbutchered.
“This fellow would tame a fiery dragon,” quoth he, “aye, and ride him through the air, too, without fear, or he could never have coaxed Bishop into such a good humour as to become a steed for him.”
The whole party now entered the house, and Prothero narrated, to their boundless amusement, their ultimate discovery of the bull’s abduction. Rosser and his fellows had been sent in a body to trace the foot-prints of the bull in the snow, and recapture him if possible; but as such signs were utterly invisible, Rosser returned in the utmost dismay, with a face half a yard long, from the effect, he said, of a new light that had just broken in upon him. With great solemnity, he declared his conviction that the supposed bull was no beast at all, but the devil in disguise, as not a print of his hoof was to be found anywhere, although four set of human feet were traceable, backwards and forwards.
“That was no bull,” said the wise Rosser; “it was a devil which, after kicking down the cow-house, and firing the hay with his brimstone breath, flew away in a clap of thunder, which indeed I heard myself, as plainly as I hear my own voice at this moment.”
“For all these abominable bounces,” quoth the squire, “I called him a liar and a fool, when the fellow turned upon me with ‘the devil take the bull! you didn’t think I could keep him in my pocket!’ Now the whimsicality of the idea of a fellow’s pocketing a bull, tickled me so much that I forgave him everything!” Another chorus of the trebles and bass aforesaid burst out again, and, at the conclusion, the ladies declared they had almost laughed themselves into illness.
“Never mind, fair ones, let the stay-laces crack—cut them asunder, and give the lungs and laughter fair play!” cried the squire; closing his period with as hearty a “ho, ho, ho!” as usually formed the climax of his sayings and doings. In the present instance the elderly gentleman chimed in with him, and exclaiming, “droll as ever, Prothero, but now outwitted by a mere boy.”
“True, Sir John, (your pardon for the omission of my respects thus long),” cried the squire, as he cordially shook his hand, “but such a boy as our combined manhood here never met with before.”
The worthy here referred to, and before noticed as the gentleman with the saturnine nose, was no less a personage than Sir John Price, Baronet, of Priory House, Brecon, the highly respected father of Lady Devereaux. He had arrived the preceding evening, about the time that Twm commenced his attack upon the bull.
Lady Devereaux explained to her father the great and gallant services which she had received at Twm’s hands, and her statement was made in the most earnest and impassioned manner, as if her gratitude was as great as on the day she was attacked by Dio the Devil, and rescued by our hero. Sir John Price at once rose from his chair, in a way that strongly contrasted with his usual cold and ceremonious habit, and extending his white, diamond-ringed, aristocratic hand to Twm, assured him of his friendship and protection in all things wherein he could serve him.