It was high flattery that he brought for Back o’ th’ Mooin. You are of consequence when, at York, thirty-eight miles away, and farther than that, you can make a stir. All York was speaking of their doings. Whether Cope was there in person the messenger was unable of his own knowledge to say. It mattered little, for men even greater than Cope had come to see to the hanging of Jim Northrop and Will Haigh, the event that the Monday morning’s sun had shone upon. John Raikes had been seized in the very act of throwing up a pigeon--(Could they get him a drop o’ brandy?)--and the other two men had been identified, or, at least, taken up on suspicion, from the pattern of their clogs.--(No, no water in it.)--He himself had barely managed to creep out of York at nightfall, without horse (he had not dared to go back for the horse), and he had walked four miles to a quiet farm and had got a horse from a stable (No, he was no horse stealer; he had left some money on the edge of the manger), and so he had ridden back. Eh, but Back o’ th’ Mooin did not know its own fame! On its sole account, constables with pikes had lined the streets, and special guards of the soldiers of the garrison had been set, and a dreaded judge and counsel, who rarely appeared out of London, had come, and prolonged the sitting of the court in order to finish ... for all he knew, a special jury had been packed too.... Famous? You had to go to York to learn how famous you were! And the evidence--was it that of the man in the chamber upstairs, who had swallowed guineas and tried to set the house ablaze?--The messenger did not know for certain; all he knew was that the evidence had been taken on deposition. He knew no more than that; that he had heard spoken of in a tavern where they had all talked about the trial. He had had much ado to get himself away without making too many inquiries.--Ay, maybe they had ta’en it by deposition so as not to put a mooncalf in the box; he hadn’t come to try, the judge hadn’t--he’d come to hang. Ay, Back o’ th’ Mooin was as famous as that!--They had spoken in the tavern, too, of a new thing called an Exchequer bond, that a great lord had been made a baron for inventing; and after that, they said, gold itself would hardly be worth tampering with.--What was going to be done next he didn’t know, but they’d best look out i’ Horwick, Wadsworth, everywhere, for all wasn’t over yet.--(Could they get him some vinegar to sponge himself with, for he was one ache and bruise from neck to ankle.)--Oh, yes, they were selling Jim’s last speech, too, printed, and a letter Jim had written to his wife an’ all. He hadn’t bought one.--Ay, it was a shame, that was, the letter not being meant to be printed and sold; to be sure, that was a shame. John Raikes had had time to buy ’em both new suits o’ clothes; they hadn’t died dunghills, neither of ’em; they’d kicked their shoes off.--If anybody’d rub him wi’ the vinegar, and make him a bed middling soft....