"Hurrah!" roared the Squire. "That's news! I owe you a guinea for it,
Jack."

He clumped up to the hearth, crying out as he came, "Show me the black,
bloody scoundrel! I'd crawl to London on my hands and knees to watch him
turned off."

Seeing me engaged in the innocent task of mending his lad's fishing-rod,
with the lad himself at my knees intent on the work, he took Mr. Wicks for
the highwayman, and cursed and swore at him hard enough to rive an
oak-tree. He was, indeed, so hot and heady that it was some minutes before
his mistake could be brought home to him. By the time he realized that the
man mending the rod was Swift Nicks, he had fired off all his powder, and
only stared at me with wide-open eyes.

"I suppose," said I, very politely, "that, as you've been hunting, the
chestnut is still on the hob."

"I'm damned!" says he, and flops down into his elbow-chair.

* * * * *

In the end we made a treaty, to Mr. Wicks' great disgust, who saw the
guineas slipping through his fingers. Nor was the Squire less aggrieved at
first, for clearly it was to him a matter of high concern to nail Swift
Nicks.

"What's it matter to us here who's got a crown on his head in London?" he
said. "London-folk care nothing for us, and we care nothing for them. But