Chapter III: Custos Rotulorum

As the labourer crossed the stile, the stranger accosted him.

"Hodge!"

"Who be Hodge?" quoth the labourer uncivilly, but disposed for conversation and argument. "You--in a collective sense."

"Then ye've gotten the sow by the wrong ear."

"Supposing I have gotten a sow at all," said the stranger complacently. "Will you present to me the right ear?"

Not understanding the nature of the request, the man continued playing on the same string.

"Hodge bain't my name!"

And grinned with the triumph of a philosopher. "What may be your name, then, my most veracious hair-splitter?"

"I be no splitter. Who be ye a-callin' names? As for my name, that I'll keep to myself." Saying which, the labourer fastened a loose button with an air of determination.

With a chuckle, the stranger replied, "Like yourself, O tiller of the soil!--for such you are, I opine, and, as such, the noblest work of God--like yourself, I am but a poor player, who struts and frets his hour upon the stage."

"Eh! a player I was thinking ye didn't look like a worker! I know en when I see en;" and the labourer grinned again at his own wit.

"But 'tis not of ourselves I wish to speak," said the stranger in a tone which he purposely made grandiloquent; "tis of another--of the gentleman to whom you doffed your cap, and who has just left us."

"What do you want of en!" demanded the labourer, in a sharp tone, cocking his ears like a terrier.

"His name."

"Eh! More names! D'ye come down here to rob us of en? But there be no harm a-tellin' of ye. It may be a warnin' to ye. 'A's name be Mister Weston."

All the stranger's light manner was gone.

"Weston!" he cried, seizing the man's arm.

The labourer shook himself free, and in a severe tone corrected the stranger.

"Mister Weston, I told ye."

"I ask your and Mr. Weston's pardon. A well-to-do man this Mr. Weston?"

The labourer scanned the stranger's clothes; the mental result was not favourable.

"That be his business, 'a b'lieve," he said suspiciously.

Apparently in an absent mood, the stranger drew from his pocket a handful of articles, among which were a short pipe, a tobacco-pouch, and some money. Somewhat ostentatiously he picked out a few silver and copper pieces, and held them loosely in his left hand. The labourer, who was about to slouch away, altered his mind, and lingered patiently.

"Good cider about here, my man?" asked the stranger.

"That there be," replied the labourer, drawing the back of his hand across his mouth. "The best in the county."

"I passed an old-fashioned hostelry--more like a gentleman's house than an hotel--about half a mile from this spot----" the stranger paused.

"Up along there," said the labourer, pointing with his finger.

"Yes; in that direction."

"With a bit o' garden round en?" volunteered the labourer.

"Ay, with a garden round it."

"And a swing gate before en----"

"'Tis so. And a swing gate opening into the garden. Apple-trees before the house----"

"Standing back from the road the house be?" said the labourer, moving his lips as one might do preparatory to the imbibing of a deep draught of the best cider in the county.

"It _is_ warmish," said the stranger, with a look of sly enjoyment. "Yes, standing back from the road the house is."

"That be the Silver Flagon."

The stranger leaped off the stile with a sudden cry.

"A day of wonders!" he exclaimed. "Providence must have led me in this direction." A sad and tender reminiscence brought the tears to his eyes. "The Silver Flagon! The dear, old Silver Flagon. And the proprietor's name is Rowe, an old man and a gentleman!"

"That 'a be--as wold a man as ye, 'a should say. A rare fine place 'tis."

"It looks it." The stranger's eyes glittered with joy.

"Too fine for the likes of----" ("we," he was about to say, but the sight of the stranger's money caused a correction)--"me. 'A can get rare fine cider in another place."

"Doubtless." The stranger could scarcely restrain his excitement. "But to come back to what we were speaking of just now"--(rattling the money in his hand)--"this Mr. Weston---- By the way, though, let us give him his full name; Mr. Richard Weston, of course."

"Ay, that be his name."

The labourer would have used the word "full," but that it stood in his mind for "foolish."

"I was asking--a well-to-do man, Mr. Weston?"

"Well-to-do!" exclaimed the labourer, thirstily. "They say he have no end o' money."

"Highly respected, no doubt?"

"That 'a be," replied the labourer, becoming very parched indeed. "If ye'll stand atop the stile, ye'll see the chimneys of his house. 'Tis a rare fine house."

The stranger stood upon the top bar of the stile, and gazed in the indicated direction. "I see them, and I make my obeisance to them." Saying which he doffed his hat, and bowed with a curiously-fantastic tenderness. He quite forgot the labourer, who was standing by his side, greedily and humbly expectant, but a cough and a kick at the stile recalled him to himself. He turned, and, with a negligent nod and a half smile at the labourer, dropped the money carelessly into his pocket, and proceeded to charge his pipe.

A minute or two passed in silence; then the labourer coughed again, and scraped his foot, and shifted his body restlessly; but the stranger puffed at his pipe calmly, and did not appear to notice him, although really he was enjoying the man's discomfiture. The labourer went through a certain mental process. First, he was mystified, and his mind was clouded; then a glimmer of light broke into the clouds, and a dim suspicion stole upon him that he had been beaten into civility by a trick. With a sense of helplessness, and of submission to the superior cunning by which he had been conquered, he was about to move away, when the passing of his tongue over his lips made him ireful and vindicative. A thought struck him, and he proceeded to give it expression.

"'A say!" he cried, in his uncivillist tone.

The stranger removed his pipe from his lips, and raised his eyes towards the man.

"Ah! you have an idea, evidently. Stand, then, and deliver!"

The man started back, having some notion of the meaning of the words; he clapped his hand on his trousers-pocket, to protect three half-pence and--his idea.

"Don't be alarmed," said the stranger; "nothing of that sort was in my mind. Proceed, my friend."

"No friend o' yours, that 'a know of," retorted the labourer. "You'd best take care!"

"I will endeavour to do so."

The labourer searched his mind for a colloquial stone with which to smite his foe. He found one.

"Ye don't look too respectable."

"You deserve a reward for your perspicacity," said the stranger, much amused--and the labourer, at the unfamiliar word, started again--"if not for your civility. You have a keener scent than our friend--I beg your pardon once more--than Mr. Weston."

"Well, take care, then. He be a justice."

"A little one or a big one, my man? A frog or an ox? For there are justices and justices."

"A big un. Take care!" This iteration appeared to assuage his thirst.

"Custos rotulorum, eh?"

"'A thought you was no good--cussin' and swearin'. 'A've a good mind----"

"I hope so, I'm sure. May it long remain uncontaminated!"

"'A've a good mind to go and tell en."

"You've a good mind to go and tell him you've a good mind?" queried the stranger, in a quiet bantering tone.

"To tell en ye're up to no good; seeking to know all about en--whether he be rich and where he lives. Danged if I don't b'lieve ye're one o' them London chaps come down along here wi' designs!"

"A peripatetic architect," said the stranger, laughing heartily. "Thank you for the compliment, my rustic sage. I am nothing so dignified as that, believe me. But allow me to correct you. You yourself volunteered the information as to the whereabouts of Mr. Weston's house; the information may be useful to me."

"May en! Danged if I _don't_ go and tell en!"

The stranger stood aside to allow the labourer to cross the stile.

"Come after me if ye dare!" cried the labourer.

"I dare do all that may become a man," replied the stranger; and also crossing the stile, he leisurely followed the labourer, who took care to keep at a fair distance.

They had not to walk far. Round another bend in the lane, where it broadened unexpectedly, and where great tufts of feather-grass were swinging their fairy bells over a brook, they came upon Mr. Weston resting himself. He turned towards them at their approach. The labourer took off his cap, and pawed the ground servilely with his left foot; and then found himself in a difficulty. He had not the wit to lead up to the attack gently, and with the consciousness upon him of the stranger's superior flow of speech, he felt himself at a disadvantage. If the stranger would speak first, he could take up his words; but the stranger stood provokingly calm and silent.

"Well," said Mr. Weston.

The sense of injury under which the man laboured gave him courage.

"This chap here," he blurted out, with a back scrape of his right foot, "be up to no good, your honour."

Mr. Weston looked at the stranger, and waited for farther explanation.

"'A be a London chap come down along here wi' designs. 'A don't deny en. 'A be cravin' all sorts of questions about your honour. 'A wanted to know whether your honour was rich, where your honour's house be, and how much money your honour keeps in it. I conceived it my duty to come along and tell your honour."

"O most mendacious Hodge!" exclaimed the stranger, shaking his head in sad and smiling reproof.

"That be the way 'a's been talkin' all the time; and swearin' and cussin' as well, and callin' your honour a frog. When 'a'd drawed out o' me that your honour was a justice, 'a cussed and rotted your honour."

"Custos rotulorum," said the stranger.

"They be the words--cussin' and rottin', your honour!"