"Dinner! Dinner!" he shouted to his wife, who came in to meet him. "The
best run o' the year, lass! Thirty miles before he earthed, the dogs
running breast-high every yard of it, and the very devil of a dig-out!
There was only me and parson and young Bob Eld o' Seighford in at the
death. Dinner, dinner, my lass! I could eat the side of a house. Hallo,
damme! What art doing here, Jack Grattidge?"
The question was put to the host, who was shuffling down the hall to meet
him. The Squire slashed the dogs silent with his half-hunter to catch the
reply.
"Please, y'r honour," said the host, "we've copped Swift Nicks."
"By G--! You a'nt!"
"We 'an," declared the host.
"Hurrah!" roared the Squire. "That's news! I owe you a guinea for it,
Jack."
He clumped up to the hearth, crying out as he came, "Show me the black,
bloody scoundrel! I'd crawl to London on my hands and knees to watch him
turned off."
Seeing me engaged in the innocent task of mending his lad's fishing-rod,
with the lad himself at my knees intent on the work, he took Mr. Wicks for
the highwayman, and cursed and swore at him hard enough to rive an
oak-tree.
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