"There's no time for chattering," said I. "Take me at once before a justice. That's the law, and you know it. I warn you that any delay will be dangerous. My cocksure friend here is already in for actions for assault, battery, slander, false imprisonment, and the Lord knows what. My gad, sir, I'll give you a roasting at the assizes. Take me off at once to the nearest magistrate. I'll have the law on you before another hour's out." My energy flustered the Londoner, who had sense enough to know the peril of his being wrong, but the fat man, dull as an ox, cheered him on. "He's Swift Nicks right enough, Master Wicks," he said. "Pocket full of pistols, four on 'em; a chap of the right size, a matter of six feet odd; hereabouts, where he is known to be; speaks like a gentleman; and, damme, I saw Swift Nicks myself with my own eyes not two yards off, and that's Swift Nicks' hat or I'm a Dutchman; I know'd it again the minute he walked into the room." "Damn the hat!" cried I heartily enough, but feeling very crestfallen at this telling piece of evidence against me. The little man snatched it up and looked carefully at the inside of it, a thing I had never done, being wrapped up in its outside. "There y'are!" he cried triumphantly. "'S. N. His hat.' What more d'ye want?" "I want the nearest magistrate," cried I. "Well, Mr. Wicks," said the fat man, "he can easily have what he wants. It's only a matter o' two mile to the Squire's." "Squire'll welly go off 'is yed," remarked the host. "He's that sot on seeing Swift Nicks swing." "Then he'll very likely go bail for Mr. Wicks," said I. "Will he?" said Mr. Wicks sourly. "If he don't," I retorted, "you'll spend the night in Leicester jail." "They do say as 'ow Swift Nicks is a rare plucked 'un," said the ostler. "Then they're liars," said I. I was handcuffed and put on Sultan, with my feet roped together under his belly. Then we started off, and the whole village, which had dozed in peace with the Highlanders only five hours off, turned out gaily and joyously to see Swift Nicks. The landlord left his guests, and the ostler his horses, to go with us, and at least a score of villagers, mostly women, joined in and made a regular pomp of it. Once or twice we met a man who cried, "What's up?" and at the response, "Swift Nicks," he added himself to the procession and was regaled, as he trudged along, with an account of the affray at the inn. My capture was exceedingly popular, and they gloated to my face over the doom in store for me, wrangling like rooks as to the likeliest spot for my gibbet. The majority fixed it at the Copt Oak, where, as they reminded me with shrill curses, I had murdered poor old Bet o' th' Brew'us for a shilling and sixpence. It was a relief to hear the host shout to Master Wicks, "Yon's th' Squire's!"