"Don't, Sir John, pray don't; pray permit me to advise your honour:
these men are always wanting. 'Acton's cottage' is a proverb; and Roger
there can want for nothing honestly; nevertheless, as I know your
honour's good heart, and wish to make all happy, if you will suffer me
to see to it myself--"

"Certainly, Jennings, do, do by all means, and thank you: here, just to
make a beginning, as we're all so jolly at the Hall, and that poor
fellow's up to his neck in mud, give him this from me to drink my health
with."

Acton, who had dutifully held aloof, and kept on digging steadily, was
still quite near enough to hear all this; at the magical word "give," he
looked up hurriedly, and saw Sir John Vincent toss a piece of gold--yes,
on his dying oath, a bright new sovereign--to Simon Jennings. O blessed
vision, and gold was to be his at last!

"Come along, Mynton; Hunt, now mind you try and lame that big beast of a
raw-boned charger among these gutters, will you? I'm off, Jennings; meet
me, do you hear, at the Croft to-mor--"

So the three friends galloped away; and John Vincent really felt more
light-hearted and happy than at any time the week past, for having so
properly got rid of a welcome bit of gold.

"Roger Acton! come up here, sir, out of that ditch: his honour has been
liberal enough to give you a shilling to drink his health with."

"A shilling, Muster Jennings?" said the poor astonished man; "why I'll
make oath it was a pound; I saw it myself. Come, Muster Jennings, don't