He was, indeed, so hot and heady that it was some minutes before
his mistake could be brought home to him. By the time he realized that the
man mending the rod was Swift Nicks, he had fired off all his powder, and
only stared at me with wide-open eyes.
"I suppose," said I, very politely, "that, as you've been hunting, the
chestnut is still on the hob."
"I'm damned!" says he, and flops down into his elbow-chair.
* * * * *
In the end we made a treaty, to Mr. Wicks' great disgust, who saw the
guineas slipping through his fingers. Nor was the Squire less aggrieved at
first, for clearly it was to him a matter of high concern to nail Swift
Nicks.
"What's it matter to us here who's got a crown on his head in London?" he
said. "London-folk care nothing for us, and we care nothing for them. But
Swift Nicks does matter. We want him hung. No man about here with any
sense bothers about your politics except at election-times, when politics
means a belly full of beer and a fist full of guineas for every damned
tinker and tallow-chandler in Leicester. But you, or that bloody villain
Swift Nicks, if you a'nt him, keep us sweating-cold o' nights.
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