“Oh, but that I will,” replied Bumpett, winding his arm confidingly through that of the stranger. The other proceeded rather unwillingly, but the old man would take no denial.
“But that’s Pritchard’s house,” he began again, jerking his thumb towards the place they had come from; “how be you come to pay for the drink in it?”
“I haven’t paid yet,” replied the other cheerfully.
“Any news flyin’ about the town?” inquired Bumpett, after one or two vain attempts at forcing his companion’s confidence. “It’s goin’ ten days since I was hereabouts, and I haven’t had a word wi’ no one.”
“It depends what you call news,” said the stranger. “For my part, there’s little can flummox me. Have e’ heard of the young Squire down Waterchurch way runnin’ off to Hereford last week? Took the Parson of Crishowell’s niece along wi’ him, an’ was married safe an’ sound like a man. The old Squire was after him, an’ Parson Lewis, an’ though they battered shameful at the church door—so they say—’twarn’t no use. The lock was turned till they was tied tight. Not that that flummoxes me though; why I tell ’e——”
“Well, well, that’s all news to me,” exclaimed the Pig-driver, with whom admiration was beginning to oust every other sentiment. “I must get down to Price’s afore any o’ them’s gone, an’ hear the rights o’ that.”
“The rights? Bean’t I tellin’ ’e the rights? What more do ye want nor what I’ve told ye?”
“No offence,” said the Pig-driver hurriedly.
“Ye don’t seem to know much about nothin’,” continued his friend, unmollified. “Now, for me, there’s not a thing done within twenty mile but I know it all pat afore ye can so much as put your thumb to your nose. Why, the breath wasn’t out of Evans o’ the Dipping-Pool’s body, an’ I knew where his money was to land. That’s me all over.”