"This is 'im, y'r worship," he said. "A dirty 'oss-thief as badly wants
'anging. Copped in the act, y'r worship, of riding into this 'ere yard o'
mine, as big as bull-beef, sitting on the very 'oss 'e'd stolen from his
lordship 'ere."
His lordship was the Colonel, who had leisurely left his meal again to
settle my hash. I can see him now as he stood on the step of the inn-door,
carefully flicking a stray crumb or two from his waistcoat, and taking the
measure of the man he had to bamboozle, with clear, amused, grey eyes.
"The Mayor of the town, I think," he said softly.
"Yes, your honour," said the good man surreptitiously wiping something,
probably sugar, off his hands on the lining of his gown.
"And his beadle, your lordship," added the host, and the under-strapper
inside the greatcoat saluted the Colonel with a flourish of his tipstaff.
"I am Colonel Waynflete," he answered in level measured tones, "riding on
important business of His Majesty's, and my horse was stolen at an inn,
some miles back, beyond Stafford. But for the kindness of my Lord Brocton
in providing me with another, His Gracious Majesty's affairs would have
been badly disarranged.
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