“...That may be; but many of them saw Charles Edward in the ’45, in Manchester. For that matter, his drummer was a Horwick lad; there’s a tale about that I’ll tell you some time. But King or Elector, it’s small odds now, and I shouldn’t wonder (this, of course, is _un_official) but my own word carried as much weight in Back o’ th’ Mooin as another man’s.--Our Piece Hall is considered a fine building. The statue in the niche is of Queen Anne; a good piece of work, take an engraver’s word for it.--The market is very late.--Ah, let me make you known to John Emmason, one of our magistrates. You and he will doubtless work in some measure together....” The bailiff had now opened his books, and the Back o’ th’ Mooiners were unpacking their budgets on the pieceboards. The market was opening tardily. The huge red-whiskered man in the foxskin cap continued to present the new exciseman here and there, and then the bailiff’s clerks began to pass more busily between the pieceboards. Quickly the talk and laughter fell to a low murmur of exchange; and presently Monjoy said, “Come, a morning draught at the ‘Cross Pipes.’ What say you?” The eyes beneath the bruised-looking lids blinked up at Monjoy. “Certainly, certainly, certainly; but I fear I must confess--hn! hn!--that I have a weakly stomach. The weakest glass of brandy and water--a very little excess--ah!” His narrow chest rose in a quick little sigh. “Ay? Well, Huggins was the other way. ‘Four-in-Hand Huggins,’ we called him; but it beat him at the finish. Come.” Half-way down the market-place Monjoy stopped to exchange a word with Matthew Moon. “Ay, eight o’clock, in the kitchen,” Moon grunted, and Monjoy nodded and returned to Jeremy Cope. They passed almost unnoticed into the “Cross Pipes.” CHAPTER II. THE EXECUTIVE. Through the wall-stones of the end of the “Cross Pipes” that abutted on the market-place the soot of the chimneys had in some mysterious way worked, so that the flues and branchings from the various chambers showed like some grimy inverted cactus. An addition had been built forward to the cobbled space, and up and down it, following the pitch of the roof, ran the name of the house, with every “S” turned the wrong way about. From this again projected the red-curtained bow-window of the parlour; and while the public entrance lay to the right within the stable-arch, the approach to the kitchen and private parts of the house lay on the other side, up a cobbled alley.