Mr Bolt came alongside, red and breathless. “Ye mid just ask the folks at the Black who they expects to call for that there parcel,” he said. “I be a bit puzzled in my mind about it.” “I will,” agreed the other; “but let me go now, good man, else I’ll never get to Sturminster to ask about no parcels at all.” Mr Bolt was in a stern and silent mood during the whole of that day, and after tea, instead of settling down to his pipe with little Abel in his chair beside him, strolled out Branston way to meet the carrier. He had not long to wait before he heard the familiar creaking and rattling of the rickety van, and presently the solitary light of its swinging lantern came bobbing along between the hedges. The farmer repeated the procedure of the morning:— “Hi, bide a bit!” “Hullo, be it you, Mr Bolt? Ah, I axed that there question.” “Did ye?” said the farmer, planting himself in front of the horse on the wet roadway. “Ees. I d’ ’low there’s some mistake about Ed’ard Blanchard emmygrating. He be to call for that parcel hisself.” “Be he?” enquired Mr Bolt with starting eyes. “He be. There was never no talk of his emmygrating, the folks at the Black d’ say. He be a-workin’ under the same measter, an’ a-drivin’ o’ the same cart. He have shifted from the house he had to a lodging i’ the town, but that’s all the emmygration he did do.” “I see,” said the farmer, “Thank ’ee.” “’Twas a funny thing as ye didn’t know, warn’t it?” remarked the carrier as he gathered up the reins. “Blanchard’s your daughter’s husband, bain’t he?” “Ees, that’s right,” agreed Bolt. “I d’ ’low it be a funny thing.” He turned away, and the van jingled past him and soon disappeared into the darkness. Mr Bolt went slowly homewards, revolving this astonishing discovery in his mind. He’d been tricked—that was what had happened. They were all in it, Ned and Alice, and even his wife. They thought they could fool him just as if he were a child. He knew what they were at. They thought that once Alice and her children were established at the farm he could never find it in his heart to turn them out again; but he would soon show them whether he could or not. No doubt Master Ned intended to come marching in by and by, expecting to be received with open arms. They thought him, Farmer Bolt, a regular sammy, did they? He’d let them know what sort of a sammy he was! Perhaps he could make fools of them just as easily as they had made a fool of him. He stood stock-still in the road all at once—an idea had flashed across him, a scheme of vengeance quite as subtle as the offence, and moreover appropriate. They—those deceivers—should find themselves caught in their own trap!