"
"Sir," said he proudly, "a Chartley never lies."
"Of course," said I, "it's hard to say exactly how big a fish is when
you've missed him. So your name's Chartley. Is this Chartley Towers?"
"It is," said he, with a taking boyish pride ringing in his voice. "We
are the Chartleys of Chartley Towers. We go back to Edward the Third."
Did ever man enjoy such fat luck as mine? I had been as hard beset as a
nut in the nutcrackers. To prove that I was not Swift Nicks I should have
to prove that I was Oliver Wheatman. The Bow Street runner would see to
that, for, as Swift Nicks, I was worth fifty guineas to him, a sum of
money for which he would have hanged half the parish without a twinge.
Cross or pile, I should lose the toss. Drive away the cart! Such had been
my thoughts, and now a lad's young pride had snatched me out of danger. I
grew quite merry over the splicing, and told young Chartley all about my
fight with the great jack.
The job was near on finished when there was a rattle of hoofs without,
and, a minute later, the door was flung open and in swept a torrent of
yapping foxhounds, followed by a big, hearty, noisy man in jack-boots and
a brown scratch bob-wig.
Pages:
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397