“This next, that I was saying to James this morning, Arthur,” he said. “Ye give too much away wi’ your tongue. It’s folly to talk as ye did this morning. They say ye told him ye’d thought o’ copying the Queen Anne yonder i’ metal.” “I never said so,” cried Monjoy. “Well, you talk o’ Charles Edwards and Commonwealths. Remember, there’s a bairn i’ yon niche that his father hasn’t seen yet----” James Eastwood interposed quickly. “Let me speak,” he said. “John Emmason’s sent this Cope word to sup wi’ him next week. Now mark; afore Cope can do anything--and that’s supposing he isn’t another Huggins, and Huggins got bedsore sooner nor footsore--afore he can do anything, he must see John, or else John Leedes, or else Hemstead, the solicitor. Very well; what is it he wants? Information, ye say: now listen. He can have it. Let him come to this very Horwick Thursday. Let one of us say this: ‘Yon’s Red Monjoy, that engraves the dies; plating’s his next move! Yon’s Matthew Moon, a cloth-merchant by trade, that keeps the books, every crown and Portugal entered up this dozen year and more. Mish yonder, and Dick o’ Dean, they do most o’ th’ striking; and for clipping and lending and so on, there’s three or four hundred here, and ye can tak’ your pick.’ Tch! All that isn’t worth a tick o’ one o’ my sheep! It’s like he knew all that afore he came. Hear what John Emmason says, mumbling in his sleep in an armchair (ye know John’s ways): It’s evidence he’ll want, evidence to base a case on. They’d ha’ hanged Jim and Haigh months ago if they’d had evidence. They’re bound by th’ Law, same as us, and John--well, if John hasn’t, telled me th’ Law, he can leave a book open, can’t he? and I can read what’s marked in it wi’ a pen, can’t I? It’s treason, by Edward Third; four hundred pound and branding for having clippings, William; a search-warrant on complaint, George; but all’s ta’en on evidence.--But I’m for moving the Forge too, for it wadn’t be such bad evidence to catch us wi’ our fingers in it.” “To be sure,” murmured John Raikes. “That’s agreed,” said Monjoy, curtly. He had not ceased to frown since Matthew Moon’s rebuke. The infant in the niche gave a feeble cry, and Moon rose to call Sally. Sally took up babe and bedclothes in a bundle. “Send us some ale in, Sally,” Monjoy said; and he added to his companions; “When the ale comes I have something to say to the Executive.” Presently the ale was brought. Monjoy took a deep draught, and bestrode the hearth again. “Tell me, Matthew--tell me, John and James,” he said slowly, “what d’ye think this trade of ours, as it stands, is worth? (Wait a minute and let me finish.) Is it worth a deal? Reckon the risk. Reckon the cost, time and money. Reckon we’ve to dodge about with the Forge, Fluett, Booth, Brotherton, and so on. Reckon what I could make at engraving; John at the stocks and teazels; James with his flocks; Matthew at the pieceboards and his warehouse. Is it a deal better than honesty?”