"My son have got his self-respect, I believe, Susan, and, change or not change, he’ll never give her another chance, I should hope. ’Tis done, and to her dying day she’ll rue it--as she well deserves. To put that rough rabbit-catcher afore--however, I thank God she did--I thank God she did; and I shall thank Him in person on my knees this night. Never, never was such an empty giglet wench heard of. A merciful escape without a doubt; for a fool only breeds fools." "I may be her brother-in-law if I can’t be her husband," said Bartley; and then he departed and left the indignant and wounded old women to wonder what he might mean. *CHAPTER IX* *THE DOGS OF WAR* The renowned Mr. Fogo, with the modesty of a man really great, arrived at Sheepstor in a butcher’s trap from Plymouth. He brought a box of humble dimensions, studded with brass nails; while for the rest, a very large umbrella, two walking-sticks and a cape of London pattern completed his outfit. Reuben Shillabeer walked as far as Sheep’s Tor Bridge, and the two notable men met there and shook hands before numerous admiring spectators. Then the sporting butcher, who had driven Mr. Fogo from Plymouth, proceeded to Reuben’s familiar inn, while ’Frosty-face’ and the ’Dumpling’ made triumphal entry into the village together. The contrast between them could scarcely have been more abrupt. Shillabeer ambled with immense strides and heaving shoulders, like a bear on its hind legs, and his great, gentle face, set in its tawny fringe of hair, smiled out upon the world with unusual animation as he shortened his gait, crooked his knees somewhat and gave his arm to his friend. The notable Fogo was a good foot shorter than Reuben--a thin, brisk, clean-shaved man with eyes like a hawk, under very heavy brows, now quite white. His nose was sharp and thin; his mouth, a slit; his hair was still thick and white as snow. Fogo numbered seventy years, yet bore himself as straight and brisk as a youth. He was agile, thin and wiry; but a certain asperity of countenance, which had won him his nickname in the past, was now smoothed away by the modelling of time, and Mr. Fogo’s face, though keen, might be called amiable; though exceedingly wide-awake, revealed no acerbity of expression. His glance took in the situation swiftly. "Crikey!" he said. "And you live here among all these trees and mountains and rocks! But I daresay, now, there’s pretty fishing in this river." "Trout--nought else. And ’tisn’t the season for ’em. But a fisherman still, I see--eh? What a man! Not a day older, I warrant. And how did they serve you at Plymouth?"