nut in the nutcrackers. To prove that I was not Swift Nicks I should have
to prove that I was Oliver Wheatman. The Bow Street runner would see to
that, for, as Swift Nicks, I was worth fifty guineas to him, a sum of
money for which he would have hanged half the parish without a twinge.
Cross or pile, I should lose the toss. Drive away the cart! Such had been
my thoughts, and now a lad's young pride had snatched me out of danger. I
grew quite merry over the splicing, and told young Chartley all about my
fight with the great jack.

The job was near on finished when there was a rattle of hoofs without,
and, a minute later, the door was flung open and in swept a torrent of
yapping foxhounds, followed by a big, hearty, noisy man in jack-boots and
a brown scratch bob-wig.

"Dinner! Dinner!" he shouted to his wife, who came in to meet him. "The
best run o' the year, lass! Thirty miles before he earthed, the dogs
running breast-high every yard of it, and the very devil of a dig-out!
There was only me and parson and young Bob Eld o' Seighford in at the
death. Dinner, dinner, my lass! I could eat the side of a house. Hallo,
damme! What art doing here, Jack Grattidge?"

The question was put to the host, who was shuffling down the hall to meet
him. The Squire slashed the dogs silent with his half-hunter to catch the
reply.

"Please, y'r honour," said the host, "we've copped Swift Nicks."

"By G--! You a'nt!"

"We 'an," declared the host.