“He could kick remarkable hard,” said Job Latter. “I’ve the marks of his clouted shoes on my shins yet, i’ aw’ th’ colours of the rainbow.” “Ay, by Guy,” said Tim Bentley. “That must have been a tuzzle wi’ him when you got him in yer grip. It were worth a trifle to ha’ seen it.” “I believe you,” said Latter; “it was better to look at than feel. I verily believe he has spelched actchul pieces out of my shin bones. The doctor says he’s afeard they are gone green; and he need na’—any body can see that. They are green, and blue, and every mander of colour.” “What the doctor meant,” said Crusoe, “was, he was afraid of gangrene—that is, mortification.” “Nonsense!” said Latter, rather frightened though; “when a man’s legs martify they ta’en ’em off, and he’s not going, I can tell him, to tak’ my legs off. They’re a better pair o’ legs than th’ doctor’s got his sen, barrin’ these toothry brusses.” “No,” said Crusoe, “he does not mean to take your legs off, but to caustic the mortified flesh, and get it away.” “Oh,” said Latter, “if he canna mak a cure on ’em, I can. I’ll lay some of my green sauve on, such as I dresses hosses wi’. As for Scammel, poor devil, they canna hang him, anyhow; and I’m rather glad on’t, as I helped to catch him.” With that followed many a story of Scammel’s exploits in the woods with the keepers, and wonders that he had not had his brains knocked out years ago. “‘Twasn’t so easy,” said old Bobby Powell, the cobbler; “Scammel was more likely to have knocked out half-a-dozen other people’s. Bless you! he had a scull as hard as my lapstone; and as for legs—I’ve seen the paintings on the walls at my Lord Birron’s at Newstead, of the Red Shanks and Limners, but long as their legs were, Scammel’s would have outrun ’em.” And Powell had his story of one of Scammel’s skirmishes in the woods at Annesley, when Squire Musters, a desperate, strong, active man, and a dozen keepers, armed with swipples (flails), his favourite weapon with poachers, had to cut and run from Joe and a little knot of Selston boys. Many were the speculations about Nathan Hopcraft. Some thought he was as guilty as Scammel. “He’s such a hog,” said one; “he would murder his grandmother, I undertake to say, if he could get a groat by it.” “No, no,” said another; “he is such a confounded coward; he’d as soon attack Farmer Chaffer’s bull, and he’s a savage un’, as attempt to kill a man.” “Ay, coward he may be,” said the wheelwright; “but all cowards is mean, and he’d be ready enough to help a strong fellow like Scammel. My notion is, they’ll hang Hopcraft, and sarve him right too.” On the morning before Hopcraft was taken to the hall, the news came that the body of Scammel had been brought up by the drags, and lay in the barn at Cotmanhaye mill, waiting for the coroner’s inquest. This added greatly to the excitement, and as the covered cart drove through the village to Woodburn, everybody was out of doors.