“That’s the law,” said the autocratic Mr. Quince, sharply. “O’ course, if you think you know more about it than I do, I’ve nothing more to say.”
“I don’t want to do nothing I could get into trouble for,” murmured Mr. Rose.
“You can’t get into trouble by doing as I tell you,” said the shoemaker, impatiently. “However, to be quite on the safe side, if I was in your place I should lose the key.”
“Lose the key?” said the farmer, blankly.
“Lose the key,” repeated the shoemaker, his eyes watering with intense appreciation of his own resourcefulness. “You can find it any time you want to, you know. Keep him there till he promises to give up your daughter, and tell him that as soon as he does you’ll have a hunt for the key.”
Mr. Rose regarded him with what the shoemaker easily understood to be speechless admiration.
“I—I’m glad I came to you,” said the farmer, at last.
“You’re welcome,” said the shoemaker, loftily. “I’m always ready to give advice to them as require it.”
“And good advice it is,” said the smiling Mr. Hogg. “Why don’t you behave yourself, Joe Garnham?” he demanded, turning fiercely on a listener.
Mr. Garnham, whose eyes were watering with emotion, attempted to explain, but, becoming hysterical, thrust a huge red handkerchief to his mouth and was led away by a friend. Mr. Quince regarded his departure with mild disdain.