were due at a duck-shooting ten miles off by seven o'clock, and so were
stirring early. My matter was soon settled. The Squire sat magisterially
in his elbow-chair, and Nance and her father told their tale, precisely as
I had told it before them. It cleared me and made the thief-catchers look
mightily confused and sheepish, and very relieved they were when, as a
politic way of staving off awkward questions, I grandly accepted their
apologies.

"I knew you weren't Swift Nicks," said the Squire, "when I saw you
mending my lad's fishing-rod. Damme, we'll get him though, before we've
done."

He invited me to join him at breakfast, where we were alone for the first
time.

"Is it into the fire or into the fender?" he asked meaningly.

I was ready for him and, stopping with the carving knife half-way through
a fine ham I was slicing, said, as if amazed, "Is what into the fire or
into the fender?"

"The chestnut," said he.

"The chestnut!" I retorted.

"Well, well! I don't blame you for your caution, sir. Sir James Blount
sounded me and I know you know my reply. Whether fire or fender will make
no difference to me, and I wouldn't miss to-day's duck-shoot to make it
either."