While George went on with his work so quietly, his mind was anything but quiet. He knew his late master well enough to be sure that his threat was no idle one, and that, if the money he had owed him for so long was not produced, Bumpett would never rest until he had him safely by the heels in jail. He had lately been assured in chapel that the way of the transgressor was hard, but it struck him, as he delved on, that the way of the transgressor trying to reform was even harder.
“Who was that climbing upon the fence?” called the voice of Mrs. Walters.
He looked up to see her standing at an open window with an expression of some displeasure upon her face.
“It was Mr. Bumpett, ma’am—the Pig-driver at Abergavenny.”
“Why was he shouting in that way into my garden? I heard him say something about ‘the law.’”
“’Twas at me,” replied Williams, feeling rather foolish.
He drove his spade into the earth with a blow, and went up to the window, mopping his forehead.
“I’m sorry,” he began, “but I’m afeard I’ll have to go.”
“To go? And why?”