“Don’t be such a gone idiot. Leave it to me—can’t you?” “I should have thought Downy was too sharp for that;” Sam stroked his chin, and looked sceptical. “Of course, I don’t know him as you do, Pots. But I should have thought he was about the last man you could find to risk his hide for mere larkiness.” “Well, I don’t know that he risked very much. The young man is in the agricultural line, and they are fair game for any one, and have been so for the last twenty years. You may stamp on those fellows, and they rather like it. By George, if we treated the mill-owners so, they would have marched upon London long ago. But a fellow with no kick in him must expect to get plenty of it from his neighbours.” These were my sentiments to a hair, coming straight to me from Uncle Corny; and at any other time I should have struck in boldly, with larger capacity of speech than thought. But to him who has no home to defend, politics are as a tinkling cymbal, instead of a loaded cannon. “What part of the world was it in?” Sam Henderson asked, that the subject might not slip away; “that sort of thing would never do in our part of the world; though we call ourselves pretty rural still.” “Well, I don’t know exactly where it was. And we had better not say any more about it.” Sir Cumberleigh became suspicious at the first sign of direct inquiry. “After all, I dare say there was no harm done. And perhaps the young fellow was glad to be quit of all, before she had time to run up any bills. Although she was a devilish nice girl, I believe. But who could want more than three weeks of any woman? Except for the sake of her tin, of course. Mr. Johnson, you agree with me about that, I can see.” “Nothing of the sort,” I answered sternly, forgetting how I wrecked my purpose by my indignation; “a good wife is the greatest blessing any man can have. And the man who robs him of her is no man, but is a Divil.” “You had better set Johnson after your friend Downy;” Sam Henderson struck in, as Sir Cumberleigh stared at me. “You see how a Benedict regards the subject. And I shall have to be of his opinion soon. Next week I shall lead to the Hymeneal halter, who do you think?—give you three guesses, and lay a fiver you don’t hit it.” “Done with you!” cried our host, for I believe he knew. “Three chances, Mr. Johnson, you heard what he said. No. 1, Violet Hunter, such a stunning girl.” “Wrong. Try again. No Vi Hunter for me. Wouldn’t have her, if she was dipped in diamonds.” “Well then, it must be Gerty Triggs, a fine young woman, and five thousand pounds.” “Wrong again. Only one go more. Have your flimsy ready.” “Oh, I say, it can’t be Sally Chalker. That would be too much luck for a chap like you.” “It is Sally Chalker, and no mistake. Though I’ll trouble you to call her Miss Chalker, Pots, until she is Mrs. Henderson. And I’d like to see any fellow come between us.”