And then forth from one of those narrow lanes, or rather passages that are known as “twittens,” sauntered a man in a short, frieze coat, vast of pocket and button, a wide-shouldered, comely man whose face, framed between neatly trimmed whiskers, wore an air of guileless good-nature. Guilelessness indeed! It was in his eyes despite their lurking twinkle, in the uptrend of his firm lips, the tilt of his nose, his close-cropped whiskers and square chin. Guilelessness beamed in the brass buttons of his short-skirted frieze coat, it was in the very creases of his garments, it seemed to enfold him from boots and gaiters to the crown of his weather-worn hat, it was in the tones of his soft yet resonant voice when he spoke: “Lor’ love Potter, Mr. Sturton, sir, but ’oo’s been an’ give ye that theer tur’ble eye? Arl black it be, sir, leastways where it bean’t black ’tis green. An’ swole, sir! Lor’ love George Potter’s limbs, it du be a-swellin’ an’ a-puffin’ of itself up that proud, sir! ’Tis most alarmin’, Mr. Sturton! Shame on ye, neighbours; can’t none on ye du nothin’ fur poor Mr. Sturton’s ogle—look at ’ee——” But, uttering a fierce imprecation, Mr. Sturton turned his back, pushed his way angrily into the inn, and slammed the door behind him. “I never seen a blacker eye, never——” “Don’t go fur to blame we, Jarge Potter!” quoth a greybeard. “’Tidn’t none o’ our doin’—no!” “Then what be the trouble, neighbours? What’s to du, good folk?” inquired Mr. Potter. “It ain’t none o’ your business anyway!” retorted the burly young man sullenly. “We be honest folks, which be more than some can say with y’r poachin’, ah, an’ smugglin’!” “Hold thy tongue, lad!” cried the greybeard, plucking the burly young man’s arm. “Don’t ’ee see as Jarge be wearin’ ’is ol’ frieze coat?” “What do I care for ’is old coat!” “That’s because ye be fullish an’ strange ’ereabouts an’ doan’t know Jarge.” “Neighbours,” said Mr. Potter in his deep, leisured tones, his placid gaze roving from face to face, “you arl do know as Potter be a peaceable man, so here’s Potter a-beggin’ an’ a-pleadin’ o’ ye to leave old Pen alone—or I’m afeard some on ye might get ’urted—bad, I reckon!” As he spoke, Mr. Potter’s powerful hands disappeared into the deep pockets of his frieze coat, and he took a leisurely pace forward. “Simpson, my lad,” quoth he, nodding kindly at the burly young man, “your mouth’s so oncommon large as you’ll swaller yourself, boots an’ arl, one of these days if ye open it s’wide! So run along, my lad! ’Ome be the word, neighbours; off wi’ ye now—arl on ye. I bean’t a-goin’ t’ plead twice wi’ no one.” Mr. Potter’s brow was smooth, guilelessness seemed to radiate and beam from his person, but, seeing how the crowd forthwith scattered and melted away, the burly young man betook himself off likewise, muttering darkly. Then Mr. Potter turned in his unhurried fashion to look at Sir John, and the smile that lurked in the corners of his mouth slowly broadened.