“So he might, but one can’t trust to a shopkeeper,” answered Julian, with a scornful turn of his lip.
“I don’t see that,” replied Digby; “if he is an honourable man and has good feelings, I think that one may trust to a shopkeeper as well as to the first noble in the land; I know that my uncle often says that one man’s word is as good as that of another, provided both are equally honest and upright.”
“All I know is, that old Simson was very impertinent to me when I went to buy the gunpowder,” said Julian; “if I hadn’t wanted more I wouldn’t have gone to him again.”
“He cautioned me about it, and not without some reason,” said Digby; “So I’ll maintain that old Simson is a very good fellow, and, what’s more, I’m sure he looks like a gentleman in every way.”
Several days passed by, and though inquiries were made and numbers of people were examined, no clue was discovered to the originators of what the county papers called that mysterious circumstance at Osberton. Digby couldn’t help cutting out the paragraph, and sending it to Kate, darkly hinting that he might, perhaps, some day enlighten her about the matter. He was afraid of committing the account to paper, but her very acute perception at once divined that he had taken a prominent part in the affair. How she did long to hear all about it, and how he did long for the holidays that he might tell her. He had an idea that his uncle knew something about it, because after this neither he nor Julian were allowed to go out, except in company with Marshall or Power, or Toby Tubb. One day, however, all the boys had gone together to the beach, and by some means or other, unintentionally, while some were climbing up over the cliffs, Digby got separated from the rest. As he knew his way home, however, perfectly well, he did not care about it, even though it was growing dark. He had not gone far when two men overtook him; they were rough-looking fellows and dressed as seamen; he did not altogether like their appearance. They went on some little way, and then turning back, they looked him in the face, and one of them said—
“Are you Squire Heathcote’s son, master?”
“Yes,” answered Digby, “I am. Why do you want to know?”
“I’ve asked a civil question, and you’ve given a civil answer, master. Good-night,” replied the man who had before spoken; and then they both walked rapidly on.
Digby thought it rather odd that men of that sort should wish to know who he was, but troubled himself very little more about the matter.
When he got home, his uncle inquired how he came to be later than the rest; and knowing he always spoke the truth, was perfectly satisfied with his explanation.