Now Ned Botsey was rather an impudent young man, and Mr. Masters,
though he was mild enough at home, did not like impudence from the
world at large. "I suppose, Mr. Botsey," said he, "that if Goarly
were to go to you for a barrel of beer you'd sell it to him?"

"I don't know whether I should or not. I dare say my people would.
But that's a different thing."

"I don't see any difference at all. You're not very particular as
to your customers, and I don't ask you any questions about them.
Ring the bell, Runciman, please." The bell was rung, and the two
newcomers ordered their liquor.

It was quite right that Ned Botsey should be put down. Every one in
the room felt that. But there was something in the attorney's tone
which made the assembled company feel that he had undertaken
Goarly's case; whereas, in the opinion of the company, Goarly was a
scoundrel with whom Mr. Masters should have had nothing to do. The
attorney had never been a sporting man himself, but he had always
been, as it were, on that side.

"Goarly is a great fool for his pains," said the doctor. "He has
had a very fair offer made him, and, first or last, it'll cost him
forty pounds."

"He has got it into his head," said the landlord, "that he can sue
Lord Rufford for his fences. Lord Rufford is not answerable for his
fences."

"It's the loss of crop he's going for," said Twentyman.