The landlord left his guests, and the ostler
his horses, to go with us, and at least a score of villagers, mostly
women, joined in and made a regular pomp of it. Once or twice we met a man
who cried, "What's up?" and at the response, "Swift Nicks," he added
himself to the procession and was regaled, as he trudged along, with an
account of the affray at the inn. My capture was exceedingly popular, and
they gloated to my face over the doom in store for me, wrangling like
rooks as to the likeliest spot for my gibbet. The majority fixed it at the
Copt Oak, where, as they reminded me with shrill curses, I had murdered
poor old Bet o' th' Brew'us for a shilling and sixpence. It was a relief
to hear the host shout to Master Wicks, "Yon's th' Squire's!"
We trooped up to a fair stone house of ancient date with a turret at the
tip of each wing. My luck was clean out. The Squire was not yet back home
from hunting, for he went out with the hounds every day the scent would
lie. He had ridden far, or was belated, or his horse had foundered, and
there was no telling, said his ruddy old butler, when he would be back.
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