“I was running out to take our places, when I went slap up against a constable. ‘The carrion have got scent of the carcass already,’ said I to myself. The next moment I saw my captain’s gold watch in his hand. ‘We have found this,’ he said, ‘at a pawnbroker’s, pledged for five pounds.’ ‘All right,’ said the captain. ‘Catch the man, and I’ll give you fifty pounds, and come and prosecute the thief.’ “He took the watch. ‘That’s it,’ he said; and put it in his pocket. “‘But we shall want that,’ said the man, ‘when we charge the thief before the magistrate.’ “‘Catch your hare, and then we’ll cook him,’ said my captain, now grown quite cheery. The man looked as if he would have the watch back to produce in court. ‘When you have the thief,’ said the captain, ‘you will have both the watch and myself to produce; in the meantime, Tom, take this good fellow, and give him a couple of guineas, for his present trouble; be quick, we have no time to spare.’ “That night we were on the way; the next morning we were at Beech-Lees. Soon after Captain Chillington got married, and made a thorough change in his establishment. Among the rest, I went to the wall; but I would not have minded, after all we suffered together in our sogering days, if he hadn’t signed that warrant of Squire Bullockshed’s. That was a cut that will stick by me till the day of my death.” By this time, the dinner was over, the dishes all removed, for Tom Boddily had been rapidly serving and changing all the time he talked. A splendid dessert was set on the table, of grapes and peaches from the hot-houses of Rockville, mellow gooseberries, raspberries, strawberries, and cherries from the Grange garden; and Tom made his bow amid many thanks for his story, and withdrew with Betty Trapps, to play his part amongst the wainrows. Great commendations were heaped on Tom for his ability in both telling a story and waiting at table, and his services were not likely to be neglected on fitting occasions from that day. Soon after this, Mr. and Mrs. Woodburn and Mrs. Heritage rose and walked out into the pleasant sunny air of the field. A soft breeze was blowing, or rather breathing over the warm, dry country. Mr. Woodburn joined Mr. and Mrs. Degge, and Mrs. Woodburn and Mrs. Heritage wandered up the field where it was cleared of the hay, and seated themselves on a bank beneath a noble crab-apple-tree covered with green fruit. They appeared deeply absorbed in conversation, and any one listening might have caught frequently the names of Sir Emanuel Clavering, his son Henry, and of Ann Woodburn. There was a mother’s care in the usually bright and comely face of Mrs. Woodburn: there was higher care in the noble countenance of Mrs. Heritage. “Then thou dost not think,” she said, looking earnestly at Mrs. Woodburn, “that he really does practise ungodly arts?”