Here Messrs. Godby and Muddle sauntered up and presently there were four stalwart backs against the old cross. “What be the tale, lads?” inquired Mr. Potter. “Fourteen, Jarge!” quoth Mr. Godby, cutting a quid of tobacco. “’Leven!” said Mr. Muddle, tapping a large, horn snuff-box. “Which du mak’ thirty-seven on us, all told,” added Mr. Pursglove, snuffing with Mr. Muddle. “Ah!” nodded Mr. Potter; and so fell a ruminative silence. “Fine night, Jarge, ’twill be?” opined Mr. Muddle at last. “Sh’uldn’t wonder, Joe,” admitted Mr. Potter. “But I do ’ear as the coastguard be doubled!” quoth Mr. Godby. “True, John,” nodded Mr. Potter. “They be! Likewise the bozzlers be out!” “An’ Will Comfort tol’ me as ’e seen sojers, a-marching out o’ Brighthelmstone ’s marnin’, Jarge,” said Mr. Muddle. “Let ’em march!” murmured Mr. Potter. “Ah,” quoth Mr. Pursglove, “Jarge’ll sarcumwent ’em some’ow, same as ’e done afore ... ’twas tubs ’arf-full o’ watter, buoyed very keerful off Burling Gap, las’ time ... coastguard a-haulin’ of ’em in, tur’ble busy, an’ us a-runnin’ the stuff at Cuckmere! Sarcumwentin’s the word. What d’you say, Jarge?” “’Ogs,” quoth Mr. Potter in somewhat louder tone, his mild gaze still uplift heavenward, “’ogs, Tom, takes as much knowin’ as an ’ooman—’specially sows! There was Peter Bunkie’s gurt sow, you’ll mind, as never littered less’n eleven, suddenly took it into ’er ’ead to starve—wouldn’t eat naun. Peter, ’e done arl as ever man could for ’er, but ’tweren’t no manner o’ good. Me an’ Peter ’ticed an’ cogged ’er wi’ arl kinds o’ fother from rum-an’-milk, loo’-warm, to some stuff in a bottle as Peter ’ad from the ’poth’cary the time ’is leg was s’bad, but she’d ’ave naun, not she—turned up ’er nose, ’er did, an’ being just as contrairy as any ’ooman, closed ’er eyes an’ went an’ died. The neighbours arl guv’ it their ’pinion as she was took off by a information, but I b’liv’ as she was a-grizzlin’ over summat as nobody knowed nothin’ about ’cept ’er own self, d’ye see? Good evenin’, Mus’ Sturton, sir; ’ere be Potter a-tellin’ ’bout Peter Bunkie’s sow an’ ’ere be you—a-bobbin’ up that onexpected-like——” “Look ye here, George Potter,” cried Mr. Sturton in his peremptory fashion, big chin out-thrust; “look now, and mark me——” “Potter be a-lookin’, sir! An’—talkin’ o’ marks, ’ow’s your pore eye now, Mr. Sturton, sir?” It was during Mr. Sturton’s rejoinder, a long and eloquent denunciation of Mr. Potter, ending with a comprehensive condemnation of his eyes, limbs, lights, body and soul, that Sir John rode into the village, the gloomy Robert at his heels, and unnoticed by any one, pulled up in the shade of a tree whose widespreading branches afforded a pleasing and kindly shade. “Lord, Mus’ Sturton, sir,” quoth Mr. Potter, “’eavens know as I doan’t begridge nobody nothing, but I’d gi’e summat for your gift o’ speech ... so easy-like ... sech curses! So ’eart-felt——”