‘“We’ve got your man,” says the constable. ‘“Where?” says the corporal. ‘“Here, between us,” said the constable. “Only you don’t recognize him out o’ uniform.” ‘The corporal looked at Georgy hard enough; then shook his head and said he was not the absconder. ‘“But the absconder changed clothes with Farmer Jollice, and took his horse; and this man has ’em, d’ye see!” ‘“’Tis not our man,” said the soldiers. “He’s a tall young fellow with a mole on his right cheek, and a military bearing, which this man decidedly has not.” ‘“I told the two officers of justice that ’twas the other!” pleaded Georgy. “But they wouldn’t believe me.” ‘And so it became clear that the missing dragoon was the tall young farmer, and not Georgy Crookhill—a fact which Farmer Jollice himself corroborated when he arrived on the scene. As Georgy had only robbed the robber, his sentence was comparatively light. The deserter from the Dragoons was never traced: his double shift of clothing having been of the greatest advantage to him in getting off; though he left Georgy’s horse behind him a few miles ahead, having found the poor creature more hindrance than aid.’ The man from abroad seemed to be less interested in the questionable characters of Longpuddle and their strange adventures than in the ordinary inhabitants and the ordinary events, though his local fellow-travellers preferred the former as subjects of discussion. He now for the first time asked concerning young persons of the opposite sex—or rather those who had been young when he left his native land. His informants, adhering to their own opinion that the remarkable was better worth telling than the ordinary, would not allow him to dwell upon the simple chronicles of those who had merely come and gone. They asked him if he remembered Netty Sargent. ‘Netty Sargent—I do, just remember her. She was a young woman living with her uncle when I left, if my childish recollection may be trusted.’ ‘That was the maid. She was a oneyer, if you like, sir. Not any harm in her, you know, but up to everything. You ought to hear how she got the copyhold of her house extended. Oughtn’t he, Mr. Day?’ ‘He ought,’ replied the world-ignored old painter. ‘Tell him, Mr. Day. Nobody can do it better than you, and you know the legal part better than some of us.’ Day apologized, and began:— NETTY SARGENT’S COPYHOLD