“Better make the best of it,” continued the peace-maker.
“She’s a girl to be proud of,” said Lawyer Quince, keeping pace with the farmer on the other side. “She’s got a head that’s worth yours and mine put together, with Hogg’s thrown in as a little makeweight.”
“And here’s the White Swan,” said Mr. Hogg, who had a hazy idea of a compliment, “and all of us as dry as a bone. Why not all go in and have a glass to shut folks’ mouths?”
“And cry quits,” said the shoemaker.
“And let bygones be bygones,” said Mr. Hogg, taking the farmer’s arm again.
Mr. Rose stopped and shook his head obstinately, and then, under the skilful pilotage of Mr. Hogg, was steered in the direction of the hospitable doors of the White Swan. He made a last bid for liberty on the step and then disappeared inside. Lawyer Quince brought up the rear.
BREAKING A SPELL
“Witchcraft?” said the old man, thoughtfully, as he scratched his scanty whiskers. No, I ain’t heard o’ none in these parts for a long time. There used to be a little of it about when I was a boy, and there was some talk of it arter I’d growed up, but Claybury folk never took much count of it. The last bit of it I remember was about forty years ago, and that wasn’t so much witchcraft as foolishness.
There was a man in this place then—Joe Barlcomb by name—who was a firm believer in it, and ’e used to do all sorts of things to save hisself from it. He was a new-comer in Claybury, and there was such a lot of it about in the parts he came from that the people thought o’ nothing else hardly.
He was a man as got ’imself very much liked at fust, especially by the old ladies, owing to his being so perlite to them, that they used to ’old ’im up for an example to the other men, and say wot nice, pretty ways he ’ad. Joe Barlcomb was everything at fust, but when they got to ’ear that his perliteness was because ’e thought ’arf of ’em was witches, and didn’t know which ’arf, they altered their minds.