“I’ll see ye hung or transported yet for the rogue y’are, George Potter!” “I ’opes not, sir——” “Hold y’r tongue!” “Don’t be ’arsh, Mr. Sturton, sir——” “We know ye for a poachin’, smugglin’ rascal——” “Poachin’? Smugglin’?... Wot—me?” quoth Mr. Potter in tones of pained surprise. “Mus’ Sturton, if ever you catches Potter a-doin’ one or t’other, I ’opes as you’ll mak’ an’ example of ’im.” “That’s what we’re here for—look behind ye!” cried Mr. Sturton triumphantly. “Are ye there, Oxham?” “All ready, Sturton!” boomed a jovial voice, and out from an adjacent twitten stepped five brawny fellows headed by a large, loud man who bore himself with a jaunty truculence and wore his three-cornered hat cocked at a defiant angle. At sight of whom, Sir John frowned slightly: beholding which portent the corporal’s gloom was lifted from him, and, freeing his feet from the stirrups, he prepared for action sudden and swift. “Why, good-evening, Mus’ Oxham!” said Mr. Potter serenely. “An’ ’ow might Lord Sayle be a-gettin’ along wi’ his wounded arm?” Mr. Oxham slapped coat-skirts with his riding-whip and smiled unpleasantly. “Well an’ hearty enough to attend to you, I reckon,” he answered. “So are ye a-coming along with us quiet or no?” “But—wheer to, sir?” “To my Lord Sayle, for sure!” “On what account, sir?” “Poaching,” cried Mr. Sturton. “Poaching in the first place, and smuggling in the second, and for being an insolent, shiftless, masterless rogue in the third——” “And in the fourth place,” smiled Mr. Oxham, seeming bigger and louder than ever, “because my lord wants ye! An’ that’s enough, I reckon!” “Aye,” nodded Mr. Potter, “an’ where be your warrant, sir?” “Never you trouble for that, Potter! My lord wants ye. Are ye comin’ quiet or no?” “But this bean’t no kind o’ justice, sirs——” “Never you trouble about justice, Potter. You can talk o’ that to his lordship. Now, are ye comin’ quiet or no?” “Quiet!” answered Mr. Potter; “but you’ll be s’kind as to allow me a drink o’ ale first?” “Not by no manner o’ means!” smiled Mr. Oxham, planting himself before his captive. “You are comin’ along with us, and you’re a-comin’—now!” “I think not!” said a somewhat high, resonant voice, and, riding from behind the tree, Sir John reined in his horse and sat looking at the group, his chin tilted imperiously, his eyes quick and keen. “And who,” demanded the large Mr. Oxham, smiling and slapping coat-skirts again—“who the devil are you?” “Nobody, Oxham,” answered Mr. Sturton. “A no-account youngster as I’ve turned out o’ ‘The Dering Arms’ ... knocked him into the dik’, I did, last time we met——” “And my name is Derwent!” added Sir John. “And I will not suffer you to drag this man away—now or at any other time.” Mr. Oxham boomed derisive laughter and flourished his whip for the benefit of the gathering crowd that pressed ever nearer. “Oh ... you won’t, hey?” he demanded.