It's only a matter o' two mile to the Squire's."

"Squire'll welly go off 'is yed," remarked the host. "He's that sot on
seeing Swift Nicks swing."

"Then he'll very likely go bail for Mr. Wicks," said I.

"Will he?" said Mr. Wicks sourly.

"If he don't," I retorted, "you'll spend the night in Leicester jail."

"They do say as 'ow Swift Nicks is a rare plucked 'un," said the ostler.

"Then they're liars," said I.

I was handcuffed and put on Sultan, with my feet roped together under his
belly. Then we started off, and the whole village, which had dozed in
peace with the Highlanders only five hours off, turned out gaily and
joyously to see Swift Nicks. The landlord left his guests, and the ostler
his horses, to go with us, and at least a score of villagers, mostly
women, joined in and made a regular pomp of it. Once or twice we met a man
who cried, "What's up?" and at the response, "Swift Nicks," he added
himself to the procession and was regaled, as he trudged along, with an
account of the affray at the inn. My capture was exceedingly popular, and
they gloated to my face over the doom in store for me, wrangling like
rooks as to the likeliest spot for my gibbet. The majority fixed it at the
Copt Oak, where, as they reminded me with shrill curses, I had murdered
poor old Bet o' th' Brew'us for a shilling and sixpence. It was a relief
to hear the host shout to Master Wicks, "Yon's th' Squire's!"