"No, sir, no: I can't say that I did."

"Then I advise you, keep your own counsel, as I will."

Mr. Hill, whose imagination wavered between the hole in the cathedral and
his rick of bark on one side, and between his rick of bark and his dog
Jowler on the other, now began to talk of the dog, and now of the rick of
bark; and when he had exhausted all he had to say upon these subjects,
Mr. Marshal gently pulled him towards the window, and putting a spy-glass
into his hand, bade him look towards his own tan-yard, and tell him what
he saw. To his great surprise, Mr. Hill saw his rick of bark re-built.
"Why, it was not there last night," exclaimed he, rubbing his eyes. "Why,
some conjuror must have done this."

"No," replied Mr. Marshal, "no conjuror did it: but your friend Bampfylde
the Second, king of the gipsies, was the cause of its being re-built; and
here is the man who actually pulled it down, and who actually re-built
it."

As he said these words Mr. Marshal opened the door of an adjoining room
and beckoned to the Irish haymaker, who had been taken into custody about
an hour before this time. The watch who took Paddy had called at Mr.
Hill's house to tell him what had happened, but Mr. Hill was not then at
home.

It was with much surprise that the verger heard the simple truth from
this poor fellow; but no sooner was he convinced that O'Neill was
innocent as to this affair, than he recurred to his other ground of
suspicion, the loss of his dog.