“Well, I hope I ain’t done nothing wrong,” said Mr. Rose, anxiously. “You gave me the advice; there’s men here as can prove it. I don’t want to do nothing agin the law. What had I better do?”
“Well, if I was you,” said Mr. Quince, concealing his satisfaction with difficulty, “I should let him out at once and beg his pardon, and say you hope he’ll do nothing about it. I’ll put in a word for you if you like with old Pascoe.”
Mr. Rose coughed and eyed him queerly.
“You’re a Briton,” he said, warmly. “I’ll go and let him out at once.”
He strode off to the stable, despite the protests of Mr. Hogg, and, standing by the door, appeared to be deep in thought; then he came back slowly, feeling in his pockets as he walked.
“William,” he said, turning toward Mr. Hogg, “I s’pose you didn’t happen to notice where I put that key?”
“That I didn’t,” said Mr. Hogg, his face clearing suddenly.
“I had it in my hand not half an hour ago,” said the agitated Mr. Rose, thrusting one hand into his trouser-pocket and groping. “It can’t be far.”
Mr. Quince attempted to speak, and, failing, blew his nose violently.
“My memory ain’t what it used to be,” said the farmer. “Howsomever, I dare say it’ll turn up in a day or two.”