as the gentleman entered the house, i slipped back to the bed, purposing, when i was assured that he would not come directly to my room, to test whether i could hear through the break in the ceiling of the room below and the parting of the flooring under my feet what should pass among my enemies. i heard him enter the room; i heard mother mag’s return to the house and the clashing of the doors, as she made all fast. i dropped down then, and lying prone, found that by pressing my ears against the parting in the floor i could hear distinctly. and i found the gentleman berating roger by the fire.

“mark you, my man, i’ll have no more of this,” he was declaring, in clear, authoritative tone. “you’ll serve me when i will, or how i will, or take the consequences.”

“mr. charles craike,” growled roger, “i tell you i’ll not endure too much from you or any other man. i’ll serve you when i will, and as it suits me. set the runners on to me—ay, set them—it won’t be the first time by a many as p. 84i’ve shown ’em a clean pair of heels. i’ve an affair of my own callin’ me miles from here; i should have been off long since.”

“peace, fool!” said mr. craike, contemptuously.

“and listen to me,” roger blustered, “if you’d peach on me, i know enough to pull you down.”

“my good roger galt,” said my uncle, laughing easily. “i’m not questioning that you’ve served me as well this night as you’ve served me on any other occasion. and i’ll pay you well, as i’ve paid you always. where’s the boy, martin?”

“fast up above,” martin replied.

“and bradbury?”

“lying in the road like a dead man when we left him.”

“i trust,” said mr. craike, piously, “that you’ve done him no hurt beyond repair.”

“no more than he did himself,” said martin, laughing. “he’d a pair of barkers with him, when the coach pulled up. he fell out into the road; his pistols fired; and he lay there in the mire.”

“and you took the boy and have him safely here. ay, ay.”

“would you see him?” martin asked.

“oh, not i! what’s he like, though?”

p. 85“as like his father,” roger broke in heavily, “as one barker’s like its pair.”

“his father! ay! his father was passionate—lacked discretion; the boy’s the offspring of his father’s folly,” with a laugh at which i raged silently, understanding the slur he put upon me.

“and what now of the lad?” roger persisted. “what would you do with him, now he’s here?”

“friend roger galt, you’re asking too much of me and my affairs!”

“ay, ay, but what’s the answer? you’ve kidnapped him; would ye ship him overseas? that i’ll not quarrel with; he’d have a chance for his life, and he’d fare none so ill, for a rope’s end’s well for a lad.”

“maybe that is my purpose,” my uncle said, coldly.

“but no more than that!” cried roger galt. “by god, mr. craike, i’ll not have him done to death by mart and mother mag or any other of your rogues. i’ll not!”

“he’s so commended himself to you,” my uncle sneered.

“he’s like his father. your brother dick treated me kind as a lad. he’d give me a guinea when you’d have no more for me than a fine word.”

“and you’d stand a friend to his bastard, eh?”

p. 86“i’m none too sure as the lad’s base-born,” said roger, stoutly. “he’s something of the look of mary howe about him, as well as the looks of you craikes. and mary howe was not the lass to listen to the talk of dick craike, or any man, unless a ring and a book went with it. no, it’s because the boy’s born a craike you’ll not have him meet old edward.”

“silence!” mr. craike’s command cut through the air like a whip. “i’m accountable to no man, galt, for what i do. you presume to preach to me—you, my hang-dog; you’ve threatened me a while since. threatened! would any take your word for aught?”

“any knowing you, mr. craike.”

“have it so, then! match yourself against me. at least this is assured your hanging for a highwayman; are you so confident that you will lay me by the heels? come! are you so confident—knowing me?”

but roger galt answered only with a string of oaths.

“you’re not so confident,” my uncle said, coolly. “you bluster only, roger, when the drink’s in you. and when you’re sober—seldom, roger—you’re no fool; you’re ready to serve me, knowing i pay. your interests are mine, friend roger.”

p. 87“ay, that’s well enough. but what of the boy, now you’ve got him in this ken?”

“the boy,” said mr. craike, “will come to no hurt at my hands. have it so, if you will! he does not come yet to my father’s house; have that so! he goes overseas with ezra blunt, when the rogue makes port. he’ll go overseas and be set ashore to work his way home as he may. he’ll suffer no worse; but he’ll not make rogues’ haven in these two years to be. and till blunt is here, mother mag and you, martin, look to it that the fellow lie snugly at the stone house. and if bradbury live,—god rest him, body and soul—and raise the hue and cry, look to it that no one find the fellow here. keep him fast, keep him hidden—d’ye hear me?—fast and hidden! i’ve your wage with me, roger, though not yours yet, martin, or yours, mother mag. hark to the chink of the coin, roger! did you ever empty such saddle-bags?—why, what the devil—?” for the hag had screeched out shrilly.

“what’s fallin’? what’s fallin’?” cried mother mag. “where’s the dust all fallin’ from?”

“rats gnawin’ through,” said roger. “the ken’s haunted with ’em.”

“or the boy? what’s he doing this while?” mr. craike demanded, furiously.

p. 88instantly i started up, and dusted my breeches and jacket; i lay down on the bed, as martin came rushing up the stairs. but i made no pretence of sleep when he pulled the door open, and flashed the lantern on me. i sat up and stared at him. he swung the lantern over me; observing the dust yet upon me, and the length of my body marked in dust upon the floor, he muttered, “so you’ve been eaves-dropping, you dog—hey, you dog?”

i answered him boldly, though my heart beat the devil’s tattoo within my breast, “ay, i’ve heard every word, my friend. and say this from me to my kinsman, charles craike—as he has not the courage to face me here—that for all i’ve suffered and am to suffer from him here, he’ll pay me yet. if further hurt come to me; if i am put aboard blunt’s ship, i’ve friends—not mr. bradbury alone—who’ll never rest till he’s laid by the heels. ay, and tell him this from me: that for his foul lie against me and my mother, i’ll have a reckoning yet from him and his.”