Читать книгу Nutbrown Roger and I, A Romance of the Highway - J. H. Yoxall - Страница 9

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The kitchen of the “Fox-and-Goose” was a vast apartment, low and broad, with smeary walls and smoky ceiling. Clumsy chairs and tables stood about on the sanded floor, and a huge settle flanked the cavernous fire-place. Here nearly a dozen smock-frocked farmers were celebrating the close of market-day as we entered.

“Does anybody here know this young spark, I say?” the doctor repeated, as he glanced around.

“Iss, sir, I knows un,” slowly answered Yeoman Burcott of the Bridge Farm, setting down his tankard with a rap and staring into it. “He be th’ old rector’s gran’-nephew, he be; he’s a horphin.”

Doctor Arbuthnot looked at me in surprise. “Is that true, my boy, hey?” he said.

I held up my head. “Yes, sir,” I answered; “my name is Harry Hugh Solway.”

“Why, then, I knew your grandfather and your grand-uncles well, my lad!” cried the doctor, patting my sore shoulder. “Fine old Hugh! the grandest gentleman in the country-side. We must be good friends for his sake, Harry. Ah, the Grange and I have been strangers since poor old Hugh went away. Hum, hum! Going home at all to-night, Farmer Burcott; hey, man, hey?”

“Iss, sir; that I be,” said the jolly old yeoman, with a grin. “In ’bout half an hour,” he added, after measuring with his eye the contents of the brown flagon at his elbow.

“Well, if you do get home this side morning,” said the doctor significantly, “just call at Beolea and let the rector know I’ve caught the runaway, and to-morrow I’ll drive him back. Hum, hum! Yes, that’s all, Farmer Burcott. Good d’en to ye, yeomen; good d’en. Come, Harry, you’ll sleep in my house to-night,” and the old gentleman took my hand and waddled towards the door.

But the red-armed landlady met us as she entered with jugs of fresh ale. With a sideway movement of her head she nodded towards the ingle-nook under the chimney-breast. There, in the light of a handful of fire, two men in riding-coats and top-boots were sitting. They were men of coarse tanned features and heavy build, but they had not the rustic air. “Who are they, then, Dame Ricketts, hey?” muttered the doctor, in response to the nod.

“Just come from Lunnon, sir,” whispered the dame. “Them’s the Bow Street runners, come to catch th’ highwayman—the Nutbrown, as they calls him.”

“Hum, hum! Man-hunters, hey?” growled the doctor, turning as he spoke. Still holding my hand he advanced to the ingle-nook.

“Your fellow-servant of the law, gentlemen,” he said, glaring through his spectacles at the men in top-boots. “I wish you success. When you have caught your bird come to me for a warrant. I am a justice of the peace—Gregory Arbuthnot, doctor of medicine, at your service. My house is on the other side of the Green.”

The men rose and touched their hats. “Sarvint to you, sir. Tony Jarvis from Bow Street, at your service, sir; my pardner, Jeff, sir,” said the bigger man in a husky voice. “ ’Fraid we shan’t cotch the feller in a ’urry, sir. Queer sort o’ cove; kind o’ hamatoor, Jeff calls ’im.”

“Hey? An amateur, hey? You mean he doesn’t do much business, I suppose?”

“Bizness, sir? Not ’e! Yer reglar bizness ’ighwayman goes at hanythin’—coaches, shays, charyots, mounted gents, hanythin’—till ’e gets caught. But this ’ere Nutbrown, as they calls ’im, wot’s ’e do? Stops the mail, it’s true, but ’e don’t rob nothin’ but th’ bags. Leaves hall th’ hold gents’ tickers an’ hall th’ hold wimmen’s silk pusses hintact, sir—hintact, as Jeff calls it, hintact. Won’t dirty ’is blessed fives with rhino or joolery; blow me if ’e will.

“An’ then, sir, wot’s ’e do?” went on Mr. Tony Jarvis in tones of dire disgust. “Why, th’ very next day coachee finds hall them letter-bags hall a-lyin’ hout hon the ’igh-road permiskous like, hall the bloomin’ letters safe hin ’em, compus menty, sir—hintact. Nice kind o’ ’ightobyman ’e is, ain’t ’e? Dick Turpin wouldn’t ha’ howned ’im, blow me hif ’e would!” and Mr. Jarvis sank into his chair with an indignant snort.

“Yer see, sir, Tony, ’e ’as a kind o’ prefesshnal pride about this, sir,” said the other man in apologetic tones. “It reglar ’urts Tony to be sent down to outlandish parts after a hamatoor. It’s like as if yerself was sent for to physic a hass, yer see, sir. You’ll hexcuse Tony’s manners, sir; ’e don’t mean nothin’. But ’e hain’t ’ad no breedin’, Tony hain’t, an’ ’is manners is rough. Yer’ll hexcuse ’im, I ’ope.”

“All right, my man,” answered the doctor, smiling. “Catch the highwayman, that’s the important thing. Whether he robs or not, he has put his neck in danger for even stopping the coach, you know. Good night to you, good night; come, Harry!” and amidst a chorus of “good nights” we quitted the “Fox-and-Goose”.