Chapter LIX: Another Council of War.—mr. Gallon at Home

MRS. Margerum having soothed and pressed her beautiful boy to her
bosom, ran into the house, and hurrying on the everlasting
pheasant-feather bonnet in which she was first introduced to the
reader, and a faded red and green tartan cloak hanging under it,
emerged at the front door just as Sir Moses and Joe entered at
the back one, vowing that she would have redress if it cost her a
fi’ pun note. Clutching dear Anthony Thom by the waist, she made
the best of her way down the evergreen walk, and skirting the
gardens, got upon the road near the keeper’s lodge. “Come along,
my own dear Anthony Thom,” cried she, helping him along, “let us
leave this horrid wicked hole.—Oh, dear! I wish I’d never set
foot in it; but I’ll not have my Anthony Thom chastised by any
nasty old clothesman—no, that I won’t, if it cost me a fifty pun
note”—continued she, burning for vengeance. But Anthony Thom had
been chastised notwithstanding, so well, indeed, that he could
hardly hobble—seeing which, Mrs. Margerum halted, and again
pressing him to her bosom, exclaimed, “Oh, my beloved Anthony
Thom can’t travel; I’ll take him and leave him at Mr.
Hindmarch’s, while I go and consult Mr. Gallon.”—So saying, she
suddenly changed her course, and crossing Rye-hill green, and the
ten-acre field adjoining, was presently undergoing the _wow-wow
wow-wow_ of the farmer lawyer’o dog, Towler. The lawyer, ever
anxious for his poultry, was roused by the noise; and after a
rattle of bolts, and sliding of a sash, presented his cotton
night-capped head at an upper window, demanding in a stentorian
voice “who was there?”

“Me! Mr. Hindmarch, me! Mrs. Margerum; for pity’s sake take us
in, for my poor dear boy’s been most shemfully beat.”

“Beat, has he!” exclaimed the lawyer, recognising the voice, his
ready wit jumping to an immediate conclusion; “beat, has he!”
repeated he, withdrawing from the window to fulfil her behest,
adding to himself as he struck a light and descended the
staircase, “that’ll ha’ summut to do with the dripping, I
guess—always thought it would come to mischief at last.” The
rickety door being unbolted and opened, Mrs. Margerum and her boy
entered, and Mrs. Hindmarch having also risen and descended, the
embers of the kitchen fire were resuscitated, and Anthony Thom
was examined by the united aid of a tallow candle and it. “Oh,
see! see!” cried Mrs. Margerum, pointing out the wales on his
back,—“was there ever a boy so shemfully beat? But I’ll have
revenge on that villainous man,—that I will, if it cost me a
hundred pun note.”—The marks seen, soothed, and deplored, Mr.
Hindmarch began inquiring who had done it. “Done it! that nasty
old Nosey,” replied Mrs. Margerum, her eyes flashing with fire;
“but I’ll make the mean feller pay for it,” added she,—“that I
will.”

“No, it wasn’t old No-No-Nosey, mo-mo-mother,” now sobbed Anthony
Thom, “it was that nasty Joe Ski-Ski-Skinner.”

“Skinner, was it, my priceless jewel,” replied Mrs. Margerum,
kissing him, “I’ll skin him; but Nosey was there, wasn’t he, my
pet?”

“O, yes, Nosey was there,” replied Anthony Thom, “it was him that
took me to Ski-Ski-Skinner”—the boy bursting out into a fresh
blubber, and rubbing his dirty knuckles into his streaming eyes
as he spoke.

“O that Skinner’s a bad un,” gasped Mrs. Margerum, “always said
he was a mischievous, dangerous man; but I’ll have satisfaction
of both him and old Nosey,” continued she, “or I’ll know the
reason why.”

The particulars of the catastrophe being at length related (at
least as far as it suited Mrs. Margerum to tell it), the kettle
was presently put on the renewed fire, a round table produced,
and the usual consolation of the black bottle resorted to. Then
as the party sat sipping their grog, a council of war was held as
to the best course of proceeding. Lawyer Hindmarch was better
versed in the law of landlord and tenant—the best way of a tenant
doing his landlord,—than in the more recondite doctrine of master
and servant, particularly the delicate part relating to
perquisites; and though he thought Sir Moses had done wrong in
beating the boy, he was not quite sure but there might be
something in the boy being found about the house at an
unseasonable hour of the night. Moreover, as farming times were
getting dull, and the lawyer was meditating a slope _à la_
Henerey Brown & Co.? he did not wish to get mixed up in a case
that might bring him in collision with Sir Moses or his agent, so
he readily adopted Mrs. Margerum’s suggestion of going to consult
Mr. George Gallon. He really thought Mr. Gallon would be the very
man for her to see. Geordey was up to everything, and knew nicely
what people could stand by, and what they could not; and lawyer
Hindmarch was only sorry his old grey gig-mare was lame, or he
would have driven her up to George’s at once. However, there was
plenty of time to get there on foot before morning, and they
would take care of Anthony Thom till she came back, only she must
be good enough not to return till nightfall; for that nasty
suspicious Nathan was always prowling about, and would like
nothing better than to get him into mischief with Sir Moses.—And
that point being settled, they replenished their glasses, and
drank success to the mission; and having seen the belaboured
Anthony Thom safe in a shakedown, Mrs. Margerum borrowed Mrs.
Hindmarch’s second best bonnet, a frilled and beaded black velvet
one with an ostrich feather, and her polka jacket, and set off on
foot for the Rose and Crown beer-shop, being escorted to their
door by her host and hostess, who assured her it wouldn’t be so
dark when she got away from the house a bit.

And that point being accomplished, lawyer and Mrs. Hindmarch
retired to rest, wishing they were as well rid of Anthony Thom,
whom they made no doubt had got into a sad scrape, in which they
wished they mightn’t be involved.

A sluggish winter’s day was just dragging its lazy self into
existence as Mrs. Margerum came within sight of Mr. Gallon’s
red-topped roof at the four lane ends, from whose dumpy chimney
the circling curl of a wood fire was just emerging upon the pure
air. As she got nearer, the early-stirring Mr. Gallon himself
crossed the road to the stable, attired in the baggy velveteen
shooting-jacket of low with the white cords and shining
pork-butcher’s top-boots of high life. Mr. Gallon was going to
feed Tippy Tom before setting off for the great open champion
coursing meeting to be held on Spankerley Downs, “by the kind
permission of Sir Harry Fuzball, Baronet,” it being one of the
peculiar features of the day that gentlemen who object to having
their game killed in detail, will submit to its going wholesale,
provided it is done with a suitable panegyrick. “By the kind
permission of Sir Harry Fuzball, Baronet,” or “by leave of the
lord of the manor of Flatshire,” and so on; and thus every idler
who can’t keep himself is encouraged to keep a greyhound, to the
detriment of a nice lady-like amusement, and the encouragement of
gambling and poaching.

Mr. Gallon was to be field steward of this great open champion
meeting, and had been up betimes, polishing off Tippy Tom; which
having done, he next paid a similar compliment to his own person;
and now again was going to feed the flash high-stepping screw,
ere he commenced with his breakfast.

Mrs. Margerum’s “_hie Mr. Gallon, hie!_” and up-raised hand, as
she hurried down the hill towards his house, arrested his
progress as he passed to the stable with the sieve, and he now
stood biting the oats, and eyeing her approach with the
foreboding of mischief that so seldom deceives one.

“O Mr. Gallon! O Mr. Gallon!” cried Mrs. Margerum, tottering up,
and dropping her feathered head on his brawny shoulder.

“_What’s oop? What’s oop?_” eagerly demanded our sportsman,
fearing for his fair character.

“O Mr. Gallon! _such_ mischief! _such_ mischief!”

“Speak, woman! speak!” demanded our publican; “say, _has he
cotched ye?_”

“Yes, Gerge, yes,” sobbed Mrs. Margerum, bursting into tears. “To
devil he has!” exclaimed Mr. Gallon, stamping furiously with his
right foot, “Coom into it hoose, woman; coom into it hoose, and
tell us arl aboot it.” So saying, forgetting Tippy Toni’s wants,
he retraced his steps with the corn, and flung frantically into
the kitchen of his little two-roomed cottage.

“Here, lassie!” cried he, to a little girl, who was frying a dish
of bubble-and-squeak at the fire. “Here, lassie, set doon it pan
loike, aud tak this corn to it huss, and stand by while it eats
it so saying he handed her the sieve, and following her to the
door, closed it upon her.

“Noo,” said he to Mrs. Margerum, “sit doon and tell us arl aboot
it. Who cotched ye? Nosey, or who?”

“0 it wasn’t me! It was Anthony Thom they caught, and they used
him most shemful; but I’ll have him tried for his life ofore my
Lord Size, and transported, if it costs me all I’m worth in the
world.”

“Anthony Thom was it?” rejoined Mr. Gallon, raising his great
eye-brows, and staring wide his saucer eyes, “Anthony Thom was
it? but he’d ha’ nothin’ upon oi ‘ope?”

“Nothin’, Gerge,” replied Mrs. Margerum, “nothin’—less now it
might just appen to be an old rag of a night-eap of that nasty,
covetous body Cuddy Flintoff; but whether it had a mark upon it
or not I really can’t say.”

“O dear, but that’s a bad job,” rejoined Mr. Gallon, biting his
lips and shaking his great bull-head; “O dear, but that’s a bad
job. you know I always chairged ye to be careful ‘boot unlawful
goods.”

“You did, Gerge! you did!” sighed Mrs. Margerum; “and if this old
rag had a mark, it was a clear oversight. But, O dear!” continued
she, bursting into tears, “how they did _beat_ my Anthony Thom!”
With this relief she became more composed, and proceeded to
disclose all the particulars.

“Ah, this ‘ill be a trick of those nasty pollis fellers,”
observed Mr. Gallon thoughtfully, “oi know’d they’d be the ruin
o’ trade as soon as ever they came into it country loike—nasty
pokin’, pryin’, mischievous fellers. Hoosomiver it mun be seen
to, aud that quickly,” continued he. “for it would damage me
desp’rate on the Torf to have ony disturbance o’ this sorrt, and
we mun stop it if we can.

“Here, lassie!” cried he to the little girl who had now returned
from the stable, “lay cloth i’ next room foike, and then finish
the fryin’; and oi’ll tell ve what,” continued he, laying his
huge hand on Mrs. Margerum’s shoulder, “oi’ve got to go to it
champion cooursin’ meetin’, so I’ll just put it hus into harness
and droive ye round by it Bird-i’-the-Bush, where we’ll find
Carroty Kebbel, who’ll tell us what te do, for oi don’t like the
noight-cap business some hoo,” so saying Mr. Gallon took his
silver plated harness down from its peg in the kitchen, and
proceeded to caparison Tippy Tom, while the little girl, now
assisted by Mrs. Margerum, prepared the breakfast, and set it on
the table. Rather a sumptuous repast they had, considering it was
only a way-side beer-shop; bubble-and-squeak, reindeer-tongue,
potted game, potted shrimps, and tea strikingly like some of Sir
Moses’s. The whole being surmounted with a glass a-piece of pure
British gin, Mr. Gallon finished his toilette, and then left to
put the high-stepping screw into the light spring-cart, while
Mrs. Margerum reviewed her visage in the glass, and as the
openworks clock in the kitchen struck nine, they were dashing
down the Heatherbell-road at the rate of twelve miles an hour.