“But you seek a jewel that could serve you with an army of it. And, consider, the wound will go on sloughin’ while the bullet is in. We must get to work to-morrow, by your leave; portion ‘Delsrop’ into squares, like a chess-board, and hunt it over foot by foot.” “’Tis the only way.” The two were riding in company, whereby it will be seen that not only was the breach between them healed, but that the older man had taken the younger into his further confidence. This was all as it should be. The quarrel had been a paltry one; and once convinced of his wrong-headedness, the lord of Wastelands, like the gracious gentleman he was, had not hesitated to offer a handsome apology that was as courteously received. A few words, a jolly laugh or so over a bottle of Oporto, and the two were faster friends than they had been as yet. Now, as fruit of close discussion, they were on their way to an interview with Mr. Breeds; and Dennis rode in their company, at a distance behind, like a feat squire of knight-errantry. It was comical and pathetic, this good fellow’s earnest conduct of the post he had long coveted. His eye was bright and alert for surprises; his air a perpetual rehearsal of keenness that should not be caught napping. An atmosphere of mild braggadocio went with him--an assumption of swagger that was like a “property” cuirass on the breast of an inoffensive super. And yet, having regard to his upbringing, he was fine and faithful, and even courageous in a certain degree of proportion. The two gentlemen rode up to the “Dog and Duck,” and, dismounting, committed their horses to the servant, and walked straightway into the tap. As they entered, a scuffling sound, like the dive of a ponderous rat behind the wainscot, preceded them; and, standing still, they were aware of some apoplectic breathing stifling in the little bar-parlour. Mr. Tuke stepped up to the counter. “Landlord,” said he loudly, “a bottle of port, if you please.” The breathing subsided with a rolling noise, as if a heap of nuts were settling down on the floor; and suddenly the great blotched face of Mr. Breeds appeared in the doorway. “Port, your honour?” said he, in a tremulous voice. “I take your honour’s order.” He disappeared and returning in a moment with a bottle hugged in his fat hands, moved officiously to the counter, where he tweaked a greasy forelock to his worshipful customers. “Hold it up, man--hold it up! the cork to your eye, and the good black body to your own. So shall I see to tap it.” The landlord uttered a thick scream. “Mr. Tuke! Oh, God’s pity, sir, you ain’t a-goin’ to shoot me?” He had lifted the bottle as bidden, and lo! there was the muzzle of a wicked horse-pistol pointed straight at his breast. The two gentlemen laughed. “Why,” said the elder, “I want to make sure this time the stuff isn’t tampered with. Hold steady, while I knock the neck off.”