“Young sir,” said he, touching his hat, “who you be or what, bean’t no consarn o’ mine nohow, but, sir, you stood up for a old ’ooman as aren’t got many to tak’ ’er part, d’ye see, an’ so ’ere’s Potter a-thankin’ of you—an’ that is my business, I rackon.” “Indeed, Mr. Potter, ’twould seem I have to thank you also, you—or your coat——” “Coat?” repeated Mr. Potter, glancing down at the garment in question as if mildly surprised to behold it. “Aye, to be sure—’tis a old jacket as I use in my trade, d’ye see——” “A free-trade, I think?” added Sir John. “Lor’ love ’ee, sir,” sighed Mr. Potter, opening his guileless eyes a trifle wider, “doan’t ’ee tak’ no ’eed o’ what that theer young Simpson says——” “Mr. Potter,” quoth Sir John, smiling, “a week ago I was shaking hands with Captain Sharkie Nye aboard the _True Believer_, and I should like to shake yours.” “What, be you the young gen’leman as crossed wi’ Sir Hector?” “That same. And my name is Derwent.” “Why, Mr. Derwent, sir, that du alter the case, I rackon. So theer be Potter’s ’and, sir, and heartily! Ah, an’ yonder be old Penelope a-beckonin’ ... her will curse we shameful if us du keep her waitin’ ... so come ’long, sir.” “Aye, come y’r ways, du—both on ye!” cried the old creature imperiously. “’Tidn’t often I ’as comp’ny, so I’ll brew ye a dish o’ tay——” “Tea?” exclaimed Sir John. “Aye, all the way from Chaney, young man! Tay as costes forty shillin’ a pound an’ more up to Lunnon—tak’ care o’ my old trug! This way—down twitten!” She led them down a narrow way between the walls of cottages and gardens, and at last to a very small cottage indeed, a forlorn little structure, its garden trampled, its broken window-panes stuffed with old rags to exclude the elements, itself all dilapidation from rotting thatch to crumbling doorstep. “And is this your home?” cried Sir John, very much aghast. “It be, young man. They bruk’ all my lattices months agone, an’ Mr. Sturton won’t put in no more. The chimbley smokes an’ the thatch leaks an’ I gets the ager bad, but it be my home an’ I love every brick. For ’twas here I were born, here I loved and lost, here I hoped to die, but Maaster Sturton be fur turning o’ me out next month ... bean’t ’e, Jarge?” “’E be,” answered Mr. Potter softly, “dang ’im!” “Come in, young man, an’ you tu, Jarge—come in; it du be better-lookin’ inside than out.” And indeed, once the door was shut—a particularly stout and ponderous door, Sir John noticed—the small, heavily beamed chamber was cosy and homelike, very orderly and clean, from the polished copper kettle on the hob to the china ornaments upon the mantel. And now Mr. Potter reached a hand within the mysteries of the frieze coat and drew thence a couple of plump rabbits. “Found ’em s’marnin’, Pen,” he nodded. “An’ here,” he continued, groping deeper within vast pocket, “’ere be a—no, that be wire ... ’ere—no, that be ’baccy for ’Osea ... ah, ’ere be a lump o’ pork t’ go wi’ ’em, Pen.”