“Hesh!” snarled the Aged Soul. “Don’t goo fur to arg’ wi’ oi! As fur you, Tom Nixon, ‘whatsoever a man sows that shall ’e rip!’ You let ’em turn Sir John Dering out o’ ‘The Dering Arms’ an’ it be only nat’ral as Sir John Dering’ll turn you out likewise.” “Doan’t ’ee say so, Gaffer!” pleaded the mournful landlord. “But oi du say so, Tom ... turned out ye’ll be sure-lye, sarten-sure-indeed, my pore lad, ah—an’ mebbe hung or trans-ported ... unless oi can say a word fur ’ee to Sir John hisself next toime ’e hap along to see me.” “Lemme fill your pot again, Gaffer—do now!” urged the doleful Mr. Nixon. “No, no, Tom!” answered the Aged Soul sternly. “I dunno as I ought to drink wi’ ye at arl—considerin’, that oi doan’t!” Here Mr. Nixon groaned, and at this juncture the Corporal was seen approaching, at sight of whom the landlord’s depression increased and he looked appealingly at the little old man, whereupon that Aged Soul waxed suddenly magnanimous. “Arl roight, Tom, arl roight!” quoth he encouragingly. “Sir John be a friend o’ moine, an’ so’s Corporal Bob. I dunno as oi wun’t put in a word fur ’ee—leave it arl to oi!” Thus the Corporal, walking with head bowed as one in profound reverie, heard himself hailed in piping, imperious tones, in answer to which he approached slowly and somewhat unwillingly. “Mus’ Robert,” quoth the old man, “’ere be Tom Nixon as stood by whiles Sir John Dering an’ you was turned out o’ this here inn o’ Sir John Dering’s an’ consequently ought to be turned out loikewise immejit, an’ ’ung an’ jibbeted or transported! But oi moind Tom bein’ barn, an’ a bit of a fule ’e’s been ever since, an’ consequent I be axin’ you to ax Sir John to forget an’ forgive pore Tom an’ suffer ’im to boide on ’ere arl-along-on-account-of pore Tom bein’ naun but a bit fule, d’ye see?” “Why as to that, Gaffer,” answered the Corporal, his glance roving afar, “I ray-ther think Sir John’s forgot the incident; anyway, he don’t bear malice.” “Meanin’ as ’e wun’t turn pore Tom out?” “I’m pretty sure he won’t,” answered the Corporal, his gaze still abstracted. “An’ theer ye be, Tom lad!” quoth the Aged Soul triumphantly. “See what oi’ve done fur ’ee an’ be dooly grateful.” “I be, Gaffer!” answered Mr. Nixon, his gloom lifted from him. “Lemme fill your pot again. An’ you, Mus’ Doubleday, what’ll ye tak’, sir?” “Nothing, thank ye, Nixon,” returned the Corporal, and his roving glance perceiving the flutter of a petticoat farther down the lane, he saluted the company and turned away. “Robert,” cried the Aged Soul, admonishing finger uplifted, “if so be ye hap’ to meet my Nan, doan’t ’ee nowise say nothin’ about this ’ere liddle drop o’ ale, moind!” “Not a word, Gaffer!” answered the Corporal, and strode away. He found her demurely seated upon rustic bench in the little garden, busied with her needle and rather more shyly surprised to see him than usual.