Did ever man enjoy such fat luck as mine? I had been as hard beset as a nut in the nutcrackers. To prove that I was not Swift Nicks I should have to prove that I was Oliver Wheatman. The Bow Street runner would see to that, for, as Swift Nicks, I was worth fifty guineas to him, a sum of money for which he would have hanged half the parish without a twinge. Cross or pile, I should lose the toss. Drive away the cart! Such had been my thoughts, and now a lad's young pride had snatched me out of danger. I grew quite merry over the splicing, and told young Chartley all about my fight with the great jack. The job was near on finished when there was a rattle of hoofs without, and, a minute later, the door was flung open and in swept a torrent of yapping foxhounds, followed by a big, hearty, noisy man in jack-boots and a brown scratch bob-wig. "Dinner! Dinner!" he shouted to his wife, who came in to meet him. "The best run o' the year, lass! Thirty miles before he earthed, the dogs running breast-high every yard of it, and the very devil of a dig-out! There was only me and parson and young Bob Eld o' Seighford in at the death. Dinner, dinner, my lass! I could eat the side of a house. Hallo, damme! What art doing here, Jack Grattidge?" The question was put to the host, who was shuffling down the hall to meet him. The Squire slashed the dogs silent with his half-hunter to catch the reply. "Please, y'r honour," said the host, "we've copped Swift Nicks." "By G--! You a'nt!" "We 'an," declared the host. "Hurrah!" roared the Squire. "That's news! I owe you a guinea for it, Jack." He clumped up to the hearth, crying out as he came, "Show me the black, bloody scoundrel! I'd crawl to London on my hands and knees to watch him turned off." Seeing me engaged in the innocent task of mending his lad's fishing-rod, with the lad himself at my knees intent on the work, he took Mr. Wicks for the highwayman, and cursed and swore at him hard enough to rive an oak-tree. He was, indeed, so hot and heady that it was some minutes before his mistake could be brought home to him. By the time he realized that the man mending the rod was Swift Nicks, he had fired off all his powder, and only stared at me with wide-open eyes. "I suppose," said I, very politely, "that, as you've been hunting, the chestnut is still on the hob." "I'm damned!" says he, and flops down into his elbow-chair. * * * * * In the end we made a treaty, to Mr. Wicks' great disgust, who saw the guineas slipping through his fingers. Nor was the Squire less aggrieved at first, for clearly it was to him a matter of high concern to nail Swift Nicks.