Chapter V: I Become a Conspirator

IT must, I think, have been about the end of September. I had gone as usual to the Mill a couple of hours before our baggin (breakfast), but had had to jack work because of some accident to the water-wheel. Jim was throng in the millrace, but I had perforce an idle day on my hands, and avowed to Mary my intention of taking a long walk over the moors. She said I might as well make myself useful and bring her a can of barm for that week's baking, with a cupful to spare for the home-brewed; and no better barm was to be had, she declared, than that they scummed at the Moorcock. The Bradburys, father and son, she conceded, might be the devil's own spawn for ought she knew or greatly cared, but sell good barm they did; and if I wanted to stretch my long legs to more purpose than sprawling in front of the kitchen fire or strolling idly about the lanes I could do no better than take up by Holly Grove and cut across the fields towards Pots and Pan's and thence to the Moorcock at Bill's o' Jack's.

We had said not a word to Mary about the incident at the Wakes, so I had no decent excuse to put forward when she produced her quart can and sent me for on my errand.

It was a glorious day; we were having a splendid autumn, dry and warm, just the weather for a climb up the hills. I had the day before me, the rare treat of an extra holiday, the price of a luncheon of bread and cheese--with an onion--and a pint of ale, in my pocket, youth and health, a sunlit sky, the pure, fresh air of the far-flung moors, sweet thoughts of Miriam to warm my heart and many a scheme for the future to busy my brain--what more could man ask of life?

Once off the road above the Workhouse I went in a bee-line for Pots and Pans, that cluster of huge boulders, black with age, and worn by the countless storms they had weathered since first the morning stars sang together--Jim said they had been left on their exalted bed after being bundled about by the Flood before the waters subsided and stranded Noah on Ararat: but, then, Jim had also a theory, in support of which he advanced many cogent arguments, that the huge rocks that cap the hills on either side of the valley-head at Bill's 0' Jack's had been used as missiles when Gog stood on one hill and hurled them across the intervening ravine in some titanic contest with Magog--else why, he shrewdly asked, were these summits dubbed Gog and Magog to this day; there _must_ be a reason for it and what so likely as that. Idly revolving many and various thoughts I at length crossed the great steep, somewhat blown, and fain to doff my cap and let the cooling breeze blow about my brow. I sat down in the shadow of one of the crags, against which I stretched my long legs in great ease and content, and what with the warmth and the pleasant weariness of my stiff climb, I presently nodded off to sleep.

How long I sat there I cannot say, but when I woke, which fortunately I did gradually and without the start one gives when the buzzer goes, wakefulness coming gently and quietly, as daybreak lifting the clouds, I became aware that I had no longer Pots and Pans to myself; and the consciousness that I was trespassing, and the knowledge that trespassers were ill-brooked when the grouse were about, suggested that if I had not as yet been observed 'twere just as well not to obtrude my presence. So I closed my eyes and lay low. But I kept my ears open.

"It's no use thee talkin', feyther, I'm bent on it," I heard, "so tha may as well keep thi breath to cool thi porridge. I'st ha' that lass if aw dee for it."

"What dost ta mean? Tha cannot wed her, and if tha could tha'd be a fooil to put a rope raand thee nah. Tha'd rue it nobbut once, Tom, an' that'd be all thi life after th' fust week or two.

"Aw said nowt abaat weddin' her. Aw sud think twice afore I put a ring on to a Burnplatter's finger."

"Tha'rt none talkin' o' that black-haired wildcat o' a gipsy wench tha gate sich a mauling ovver at th' Wakes?"

"Aye, but I am."

"Well, everyone to his fancy, as th' woman said when 'oo kissed th' now. By gow, lad, thou'lt have a handful wi' yon spitfire. 'Oo'd knife thee as soon as look at thee, if tha crossed her. More bi token tha'll have all th' Burnplatter's to reckon wi if owt went wrong. They all hang together, aw'll say that for 'em. An' what does th' lass say to 't?"

"Winnot look th' side o' th' road aw'm on. Treats me as if aw were th' dirt under her feet. Starts off like a filly if 'oo sees mi shadow."

"Happen that's nobbut to 'tice thee on. By gow a Burnplatter 'll think twice afore 'oo turns up her nose at Tom o' Bill's, tho' to be sure tha'rt a bit on th' downgrade as years go. It's softer liggin at th' Moorcock than ivver 'oo's known at Burnplatts an' for jumping ovver a broomstick, why, there's more of 'em does it nor ivver stands afore th' parson. All th' same, aw doubt tha'rt brewin' trouble for thissen, an all for a wench tha'llt tire of i' no time an' maybe won't find easy to shut as an owd shoe. Them tally women sticks like a burr to a gradely felly wi' a good whom to his back. Tha met ha' bidden my time out; but if tha'rt set on makkin' a rod for thi own back, what's to hinder thee?"

"Aw'n yerd 'oo's trothed to Ephraim o' Burnplatts," came the reply, "an' if it's true there'll be a tussle for 't; he's an ugly customer to tackle is Ephraim. If he were aat o' th' gait aw sud stand a better chance. Aw wish aw cud land him safe i' Botany Bay, an' be damned to him."

"Well, that sud be easy enew, if we set yar wits to wark. Let me think. Eh! Tom, lad, thi owd feyther's to ha' brains for both on us yet."

There was a prolonged silence betwixt the twain, a silence you may be sure I did not break. Indeed, I was in a cold sweat of apprehension, for I knew if I were caught eavesdropping I should have short shrift, and would have to thank my stars if I got off with nothing worse than sore bones.

Then the old man spoke: "Isn't it th' October Fair i' Huthersfilt next week?"

"Aye, tha knows that wi'out me tellin' thee." He was a surly brute, to be sure, was Tom o' Bill's, but then his was scarce a reverend sire.

"What o' t?"

"Why nobbut this. Eph. o' Burnplatts is sewer to be theer doin' a bit o trade i' th' galloways them Irish drovers bring ovver th' watter, an' he'll, ten to one, be makkin' his way whom to Burnplatts ovver Crosland Moor latish on i' th' neet, an' takkin' both sides o' th' road at that, a bit an' aboon market fresh. He'll ha' to pass through Squire Radcliffe's plantation, aboon th' Brigg tha knows, an' monny a bonnie hare's been knocked o' th' yead i' that copse."

"Well, get on, aw'm hearkenin'. What are ta gettin' at?"

"Weel, if yo' an' me happened, just bi chance like, to bi watchin' i' th' Plantation just as he went through, an' caught him red-handed wi' a brace o' hares faand i' his pocket when we'd knocked him dateless after a desperate struggle."

"An' how the guisehang could he ha' a brace o' hares i' his pocket comin' thro' Huthersfilt Fair?"

"Oh! Tom, Tom, tha'llt nivver be the man thi feyther's bin. Why, if so be he hasn't a brace on him, that's no reason we suddn't find 'em i' his pockets if we tuk care to put 'em theer oursen when we've quieted him. We sud produce 'em i' court, an' seein's believin'. 'Sensation i' Coort!' that's what th' pappers 'll say. It'll be a 'Sizes job or a Sessions job for Ephraim then, an' if aw know owt o' th' laws o' our great an' free country, it'll be monny a long year an' after before either thee or yon gipsy wench 'll set een on him agen."

"It saands all reet, it saands all reet. Aw'll sleep on it, feyther. Come, let's be goin'. Aw'm dry, an' th' dinner 'll be spoilin'. Let's to whom an' think on it." And the worthy pair, gun under arm, picked their way across the heather towards Bill's o' Jack's. It may be guessed that I was in no ways inclined to follow them. Mary's barm went clean out of my mind, but if I'd had to go without home-brewed "for the rest of my natural," as folk say, I wouldn't have shown my face within the doors of "the Moorcock" that day.

Instead I faced right about, and made my way to run as fast as I could in the opposite direction. My first thought was to hunt up Ephraim and put him on his guard. My second and better to talk the matter over with my father. Here was a plot to cast an innocent man into prison; one of the law-less tribe, to be sure, for whom a good many people thought prison wasn't bad enough, but a tribe my father regarded as to some extent part of the flock confided to his keeping, and I thought he ought to be taken into counsel. I'll confess that just for one moment the thought flashed across my mind that if Eph. were, by whatever diabolic device, put out of Tom o' Bill's way he would by the same stroke be put out of mine, and the gamekeeper would have the sorry work of pulling the chestnuts out of the fire for the parson's son. But I scouted this devil's whisper without ado. However bad Ephraim might be, and were he ten times as dangerous a rival for Miriam's hand and heart he should not fall into this snare, and Bill o' Jack's and Tom o' Bill's should be hoist with their own petard, if human wit could compass it.

I found my father deep immersed in the preparation of his next Sabbath's discourse, and of this his mind was so full that I had, with what patience I could assume, perforce to lend him my ears, though I fear not much of my mind, whilst he recapitulated the heads of his sermon. This weighty matter at length dismissed the good man lighted his pipe, bade Ruth bring in a measure of home-brewed and settled himself in his chair to learn what had brought me over to Pole Moor of a weekday (wart day we called it), when I ought by right to have been tending my loom at Wrigley Mill. Ruth had perched herself saucily on the arm of the old oak chair in which he sat and idly straightened his thin grey locks whilst he listened to my tale.

"There's only one thing to be done," said my sire, when I had told my story. "Our course is clear. I must at once to Burnplatts and see that misguided youth, Ephraim, and impress it upon him that he must pretermit the October Fair, or if that be not practicable, must return home by some other route, be it never so ungain; indeed, the ungainer the better. Likewise I can improve the occasion by enjoining him to abandon courses that expose him to the guile and snares of the officers of the law. Perchance the seed may fall upon prepared ground. Though truth to say I do not at the moment recall any text of the Scriptures that seems to be directed at the poachers of wild game. Though to be sure the Psalmist's prayer, 'Pull me out of the net that they have laid privily for me: for thou art my strength,' seems apt. Yes, assuredly, it fits the occasion like the heft to the blade. Let me see, I could divide my discourse as follows..." And the excellent pastor was already busy in his thoughts projecting the word in season.

"But, father," quote Ruth, "what about the Bradburys?"

"Aye, aye, to be sure, my daughter. You do well to recall me to a pressing duty. I must from Burnplatts to the Moorcock Inn and beard the lion, nay the lion and his whelp, in their den. Here, happily, I shall go armed with the sword of the Word, for it teemeth with denunciations of those who bear false witness against their neighbours, and tells how the counsels of the wicked shall be brought to nought. To be sure Bill's o' Jack's is out of my parish, yet where the wicked are to be thwarted who shall set bounds and measures for the servant of the Lord?" And my father glared enquiringly round the room, as though challenging an imaginary audience to deny his right to speak the Word in season when and where he would. Of his right within the wide expanse watered by the Colne he made no question--he had come to regard it as his spiritual own, his vineyard, his parish.

"That's all very well, father," commented Ruth, "and doubtless you could speak to the Burnplatters and the Bradburys to their eternal profit. But I've a better plan; one that will keep Ephraim Sykes out of harm and cover those who plot his destruction with confusion. Now you two, listen to me. A woman's wit, you know, can jump over a wall whilst a man is groping round for a gate."

And my father listened meekly, for he loved Ruth as the apple of his eye, and she now had her way with him. Then Ruth unfolded her plan, and as I listened I rubbed my hands together gleefully, and when it stood revealed in all its completeness, clapped Ruth on the back and declared with conviction that such a headpiece was thrown away on a woman and she ought to have been 'prenticed to a 'torney, a compliment that Ruth received with deprecating modesty, and clearly not ill-pleased, though, to be sure, it was one of our most rooted and cherished convictions that all attornies were sons of the Father of Lies, and bound to end up in the brimstone lake. Yet have I ever noticed that--such is the perverseness of human nature--a man, and not less a woman, would rather be set down as monstrous clever, and in some danger of the Judgment, than ranked as a fool and a dullard though conceded to be a saint. Now what Ruth's plot was I must not, nor need, disclose, but you who read what ensued when Ephraim Sykes was brought up before the Bench at Huddersfield on a charge of trespassing in pursuit of game, a few days after the October Fair, will I think probably divine.

I think the little Justices' Court at the market town cannot often have been so crowded as it was that day. All Burnplatts was there, and many a sturdy rogue, and vagabond assisted as a spectator who oft aforetime had played the part of leading villain in some petty drama in that shabby forum. And all Pole Moor and half Slaithwaite to boot. For the due development of Ruth's scheming had required that we should take into our confidence one of my father's sedate deacons, old Enoch Hoyle, of Merry Dale. Enoch had been vowed to silence, but he confessed afterwards that he was so big with the part that had been assigned to him that twenty times a day he had had to stop his hand-loom to laugh joyously to himself, and that she had so often alarmed his next-door neighbour by breaking out into smothered chuckling that he had been concerned for his mind's health, and had threatened to fetch Dr. Dean to him and have him sent to "th' 'Sylum." Then, after drawing an awful picture of what would befall if he ever muffed about the matter to a single soul, he let the good soul into the secret; and it's a mercy a good few miles of wild moorland lay between Merry Dale and Bill's o' Jack's, or all our plotting had been in vain. So well-nigh all Slaithwaite was in the Court-room or, baulked in the endeavour to squeeze inside, waited the result patiently in the street or the adjacent inn. Ephraim, of course, was there, and in custody of constables. Two days and two nights had he lain in Towzer, as they called the Lock-up, and a merry time he had had of it, by all accounts, being in no lack of food and drink, and treating his custodians so lavishly that they were to be excused if they wished they might retain him as a permanent guest. Bill o' Jack's and Tom o' Bill's were clad in velveteen coats and drab gaiters, and Tom dangled on his hand a brace of hares bigger and plumper than any hares I had ever set eyes on before. They'd got Mr. Alison for their attorney, and I watched that ferret-faced limb of the law with not a little concern, for he looked so cock-sure of winning his case, when he rose to open it to the magistrates, and they listened with so evident a trust to every word he said, that my heart misgave me. It was a very clear case, said Mr. Alison. The prisoner had been caught in _flagrante delicto_; he was a suspicious character whose antecedents alone where enough to convict him, and he was the ringleader of a notorious gang of pestilent knaves who had too long been suffered to prey upon society. However, it was a true saying that the jug went off to the well, but got broke at last. The prisoner had had many a narrow escape, but now he stood in the dock on a charge supported by the clearest and directest evidence, and society for some years would doubtless be rid, and well rid, of a most dangerous character. The information had been laid by Thomas Bradbury, a gamekeeper residing with his wife and family at Greenfield, but better known as of the Moorcock Inn at Bill's o' Jack's, though in fact that hostelry was kept by his venerable father. Doubtless both father and son were known to their Worships, and they would know them as zealous servants of the law. Theirs was a most necessary and also a most dangerous calling--necessary, for what would England be if the gentry were robbed of their sport, and dangerous because it exposed them to the violence of the lawless Poachers who preyed upon the preserves so much wealth was lavished in maintaining. Sport, gentlemen, was a sacred institution. It had made Englishmen--of the higher classes--what they were and England what it was, and must be ranked in sanctity with Church and State. But that topic he would not enlarge, though it was one very near and dear to his heart, as doubtless it was to the hearts of their Worships (and, indeed, by the looks of them he spoke the truth there), He would not waste the time of the Court by any prolix opening. The facts would speak for themselves and the facts would best appear from the mouths of the unimpeachable witnesses he would place in that box before them. Call Thomas Bradbury.

Then Tom o' Bill's stepped heavily into the box, placed the two poor dead hares conspicuously in front of him, kissed the greasy little Testament with a smack, touched his forehead respectfully to the magistrates, and turned an attentive face to the little attorney.

"Your name is Thomas Bradbury, and you are a gamekeeper residing at Sidebank on the turnpike road between Greenfield and Bill's o' Jack's?"

"Yes, sir."

"Your father is William Bradbury, and he keeps the Moorcock Inn at Bill's o' Jake's?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now, on the afternoon of the 16th inst., were you at the Huddersfield Fair?

"Yes, sir. Me an' mi feyther."

"Exactly; your venerable and respected father was with you. What were you doing there?"

"We'd gone to see how pigs went."

"And did you see the prisoner there?"

"We did."

"You mean _you_ did. You mustn't tell us what your father saw. He'll speak for himself."

"Beg pardon, sir."

"Had you known the prisoner before?"

"This many a year. I've had my eyes on him a long time." And here Tom shot a venomous look at Ephraim, who stood in the dock looking as pleasant as though he was at his own wedding, and who acknowledged Tom's look by a beaming and encouraging smile.

"Most unbecoming levity," I heard one of the magistrates whisper to a brother justice.

"Well, I'm afraid I mustn't ask you what sort of a character the prisoner bears. I daresay my learned friend would object."

Now, "my learned friend" was Mr. Blackburn, whom my father had fee'd to appear for Ephraim a tall, portly man, who would have made two of Mr. Alison. A sleepier-looking mortal I never saw. I could have found it in my heart to stick a pin in him that morning, for he sprawled rather than sat in his place at the attornies' table, with his hands in his pockets his eyes closed, and seeming to take no interest at all in what was going on, whilst my heart was all of a flutter, and I could scarce keep still for a minute at a time. He half opened his eyes now.

"You know very well you mustn't ask as to character. Can't hang a man on his character, else some of us would stand a poor chance."

A constable sniggered, then looked sternly at the back of the Court and bawled, indignantly, "Silence in Court."

"I'm glad my learned friend has so just an appreciation of the gravity of his position," quoth Mr. Alison, and the Chairman of the Bench smiled; and at that all the constables felt at liberty to laugh, and so, of course, did not a few of the spectators. But Mr. Blackburn had apparently gone to sleep again.

"Did you see the prisoner leave the town on the evening of that day?"

"Yes, sir, about seven o'clock."

"What sort of a night was it?"

"Pretty dark, but fineish. There'd been some smartish rain during th' afternoon, but it had cleared."

"By which way did the prisoner go?"

"On the Upperhead Row, down Outcote Bank, onto th' Brigg, an' then up Crosland Moor?"

"Did you and your father follow him?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did he call anywhere?"

"Yes, sir. We see'd him go in to th' Warren."

"What did you do?"

"Me an' mi feyther went forrard till we come to Radcliffe's Plantation; an' aw sez to mi feyther--"

"I'm afraid we can't hear what you said to your father. My friend would object."

"Oh! I don't mind," said sleepy-sides.

"I don't think that man minds anything as long as he gets his nap," I muttered to my father, vindictively, but my father didn't seem perturbed.

"Well, if my friend doesn't object. You said to your father--?"

"It's here he'll try it on, if he means doing owt to-neet. So we clambered ovver th' wall into th' Plantation, just above th' Warren House."

"Have you any reason for being sure of the spot?"

"Yes, it were within a yard or two o' wheer Mr. Horsfall were shot by th' Luddites i' th' Lud time. There's th' bullet marks on th' wall, plain to be seen i' dayleet."

"I believe that's so, your Worships," said Mr. Alison, and the Chairman nodded assent.

"Well, we cowered down among th' bracken, and after a bit Ephraim there loped ovver th' wall. A couple o' hares started up fro' th' cover an' he downed 'em wi' his stick, an' sammed 'em up an' knocked their yeads agen his booit toes, an' nipped 'em into his pocket. He weren't three yards fro' wheer we legged, an' his back were to us. So we upped an' on to him, an' downed him."

"Did he struggle much? Did he resist you?"

"He nearly bote mi thumb off, an' it took both me and mi feyther--he's an owd man, but varry peert--all us time to howd him till aw slipped the derbies on to him. Then we searched him an' fun' these beauties on him. Stock does, they be, an' a shame for annybody to ha' killed 'em."

"Well, I think that's all I need ask you," said Mr. Alison, and sat down.

Then Mr. Blackburn rose ponderously, puffing out his tremulous cheeks, and breathing heavily as though he had just come to the surface after a long swim under water. And he wagged a big fat forefinger at Tom o' Jack's, and he certainly didn't look asleep now.

"And all this mighty struggle took place in Mr. Radcliffe's Plantation?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Well within it?"

"Yes, sir; a hundred yards or more."

"Not on the highroad?"

"Oh, no, sir, else he wouldn't have been trespassing."

"Quite so, quite so, a very shrewd and proper remark. All among the bracken, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir."

"How was the prisoner dressed?"

"Same as he is now, sir."

"Of course, how stupid of me. He has been in custody ever since, and won't have concerned himself much about his toilet. You saw him, I think you said, on the Fair during the day."

"Yes, sir."

"Several times?"

"Aye, off an' on, right up to mi feyther an' me starting for whom. We wanted to be ahead of him so's to hide ussen afore he reached th' Plantation."

Quite so, quite so, a very proper proceeding"--I did wish Mr. Blackburn wouldn't butter the man up so, but I'd yet to learn that victims are sometimes well greased before being bolted.

"When you saw the prisoner in the Fair did you notice anything peculiar about his appearance?"

"No, nowt out o' th' common."

"Quite spick and span, eh?"

"Aye, he were reet enough."

"Now look at his clothes. What do you say to them now? Get close to him and examine him from head to foot. Oh, don't be frightened; the constable will see he doesn't hurt you."

Tom did as he was bid, but with manifest reluctance.

"Well, what do you say to his clothes now? Spick and span, eh?"

"Nay, they're mucky enough."

"Mud-stained from top to toe, aren't they?"

"Yo' can see for yersen, can't yo'," answered Tom surlily.

"Come, don't get cross. You don't look so amiable as you did. Will you please explain to their Worships how it comes that a man whose clothes were spick and span when you saw him at the Fair, and spick and span when he called at 'The Warren House,' as I can prove by the landlord, was a mass of mud from head to foot when you landed him at the lock-up?"

"He got it i' th' tussle, aw reckon."

"What, among the rain-washed bracken?"

And Tom stammered and looked this way and that, any way but at Mr. Blackburn, and then lapsed into sulky silence. Mr. Blackburn beamed on him as though he loved him, and said persuasively:

"Now, after all, doesn't it look as if this terrible tussle took place on the road and not in the Plantation?"

But Tom wouldn't say yea or nay to this. He only glowered, and Mr. Blackburn, who had now risen vastly in my opinion, glanced meaningly at the Bench, shrugged his massive shoulders, and started on a new tack.

"About these hares now? Stock does, you say they are?"

"Anything particular about _them_?"

"Not 'at aw know on. What sud there be. A hare's a hare, an' that's all there is to 't."

"Have you examined this particular brace?"

"Not I. Why sud aw?"

"Not looked at their teeth?"

"Noa."

"Well, would you mind doing so now?"

Very gingerly Tom did as he was bid.

"Two front teeth snapped off in each hare, aren't there? Pass them up to their Worships, constable, and let them see for themselves."

"It certainly looks as if the two incisors had been snapped sharply off," said the Chairman. "In each hare, too, most extraordinary."

"Yes, a strange coincidence," agreed Mr. Blackburn. "How do _you_ account for it?" he asked suddenly of the gamekeeper.

"It's none o' my business," said Tom surlily. "Aw didn't come here to be badgered abaat teeth. Aw come here to tell a plain tale, an' aw done so, an' yo' may tak' it or leave it as yo' like."

"Pre-cisely, a plain, unvarnished tale. Just, no doubt, the same plain, unvarnished tale your father, your venerable and most respectable father, will tell. Oh, you needn't look round the Court for him. He's in the lobby out of earshot. But about those snapped incisors now. Surely you've a theory?"

"Not I."

"Perhaps the animals were mother and daughter, and snapped incisors run in the family," suggested Mr. Blackburn.

But Tom was in no mood to appreciate a jest. On the contrary, he looked very ill at ease, and, though the day was none of the warmest, wiped the sweat from his flushed and heated brow with the back of his huge hand.

"I'll bet I could tell what Tom 'ud like better nor a pint o' ale just nah," whispered Jim to me.

"What?" I asked.

"Two Pints," quoth Jim who was evidently on very good terms with himself.

"Well, I think I haven't much more to ask you, my good man," Mr. Blackburn was saying, and seemed on the point of sitting down, to Tom o' Bill's manifest relief. "Ah, yes, by-the-bye, you may as well tell me as your father--what did you do with the other two hares?"

"Why, we've etten----," began Tom, then grew red as a boiled lobster; "aw mean, what hares are you talking about?"

"Yes, you was saying, 'you've etten'; pray go on. What have you etten?"

"Aw don't know what you're talkin' about."

"Oh! yes you do, my good man, quite well. I'm talking about the two hares your precious father and you had with you that night, and which you intended to place in the prisoner's pocket after you had stunned him. I can imagine your surprise when you found he actually had two of his own procuring. Come now, don't keep us in suspense. You say you've etten 'em,' and I can quite believe it. Did they make good eating?"

But Tom was past answering now. He glared dumbly about the Court, and on every face there he read but one tale, the tale the convicted liar reads.

"I'm off out o' this," he said, and made to leave the box. "It's come to something when a game-keeper cannot be backed up i' th' discharge o' his duty."

"Gently, gently, Mr. Bradbury," said our attorney pleasantly, as one soothes a fretful child. "Just one or two questions more, and then perhaps we shall have the pleasure of seeing your respected and venerable father. Do you know Pots and Pans?"

"Pots and Pans?" interjaculated the Chairman. "Oh, I remember--the name of the Druid remains above Bill's o' Jacks."

"The same, your Worship."

"In course aw know th' spot," answered Tom briskly. Surely there could be no harm in confessing to a knowledge of that widely known clump of boulders though truth to say, Tom began to feel that no matter how innocent the question might seem it might lead, the deuce knew whither. "What about Pots an' Pans?"

"Well I think your father, your venerable and respected father, and you were at Pots and Pans about noon of the Friday before Huddersfield Fair?"

"Weel, what if we were? Hannot we a reight?"

"Yes, yes, a perfect right. And I think you had a little conversation about the prisoner there?"

I shall never forget the look of amazed dread with which Tom o' Bill's regarded his tormentor. Was the man more than human? he seemed to ask himself. Had he some familiar demon that whispered to him damning secrets?

Then a light burst upon him. "Aw see how it is, th' owd 'un's split. My father, mi own feyther's turned agen me," he exclaimed, and tottered out of the box, Mr. Blackburn making no sign to stop him.

The magistrates put their heads together.

"We don't understand all this, Mr. Blackburn," said the Chairman. "Perhaps you can explain."

"All in good time, your Worships. Or perhaps my friend's further witnesses will enlighten us."

"Call William Bradbury," said Mr. Alison, but it was clear he was as much perplexed as the magistrates at the turn of events. "Hanged if I know what You're about with your hares' teeth and your Pots and Pans," I heard him mutter to our attorney.

"Better wait and see," suggested that gentleman blandly.

Old William Bradbury was the next and only other witness for the prosecution. He had been out of court during the examination of his son. He walked to the witness-box with bent shoulders and feeble and faltering steps, leaning heavily upon his stick. The impression he designed to convey was clearly that of extreme age and debility, badly mauled in the discharge of duty. He told his story, the same tale as that unfolded by his son in his examination-in-chief, in a cringing, fawning voice. The course of his cross-examination I need not follow. It went on the same lines as that of Tom. When Mr. Blackburn asked the momentous question as to the conversation between the witness and his son at Pots and Pans the old gamekeeper gasped for breath. His eye wandered to where Tom sat in the body of the Court.

"Oh! you needn't look for inspiration to your son," ripped out Mr. Blackburn. "Let us have the tale in your own way."

"Aw dunnot know what th' young fooil's said," he babbled, "but what ya'r Tom said aw stick to."

"I daresay, but that won't do for me. Where is the brace of hares you and your son had with you when you secreted yourself in the warren to await the coming of the prisoner?"

"Wheer does ya'r Tom say they are?" fenced the witness.

"I rather think, he began to say, you'd eaten them."

"Then etten 'em we han, yo' may be sewer."

"And what about those you've produced? Have you examined their teeth?"

"What han I to do wi' their teeth?"

"Well, look now, and tell me if the two front teeth in each hare don't appear to have been snapped off."

Old William took up a dead hare and bared its teeth.

"Now the other," urged Mr. Blackburn. "Well?"

"It looks summat like it, to be sewer," conceded the gamekeeper.

"Well, what do you make of it?" William scratched his head. Then a light illumined his countenance. "It'll happen be a birth-mark; that's it, a birth-mark,--and at a sign from Mr. Blackburn stepped from the box much more nimbly than he had entered it.

"That's the case, your Worships," said Mr Alison.

"Now, Mr. Blackburn," said the clerk.

"I don't purpose wasting your Worships' time by any opening remarks. I shall call my witnesses, and after you have heard what they have to say your Worships will have had the story of as pretty a conspiracy to damn an innocent man as has ever been exposed in this or any other Court of Justice. ----Holmes."

I stepped into the witness-box, and, as I took the greasy Testament in my hand and kissed the book in obedience to the clerk's command, heartily wished myself a thousand miles away. I saw the magistrates, and the lawyers, and the crowd in a blurred maze, my knees gave under my weight, and the only thing real in all the universe appeared to be the ledge of the witness-box, to which I clung desperately.

I suppose I must have answered Mr. Blackburn's opening, leading questions with some measure of sanity and coherence, though I never could recall what they were, or indeed having heard them at all. Then the mist cleared from my eyes, I braced my limbs, and felt as cool and compassed as ever I did in my life. I told the Bench of the conversation I had overheard at Pots and Pans, and how I had straightway taken council with my father, feeling the case to be one for older heads than mine.

"The prisoner's a friend of yours?" asked Mr. Alison.

"Say, rather, an acquaintance," I corrected.

"You know he's a notorious poacher."

"I've never seen him poaching," I replied, an answer which, on subsequent reflection, in which I recalled certain episodes in which I was as much concerned as Ephraim, I felt to have been capable of some modification. But that was ancient history.

"Never seen him, no, probably not. I asked you isn't he a notorious poacher?"

"You must define 'notorious.'"

"A chip of the old block, I see. We must have definitions for the Ranter's son. You know well enough what the word means, sir. And answer the question."

"If it means 'well-known,' I can only say he is not so known to me. If others have other knowledge they must speak to it, not I." I'll swear I saw Ruth, out of the corner of my eyes, gently clapping her hands together. She told me afterwards she had never given me credit for so much gumption.

"And how do _you_ account for these hares being found in the prisoner's possession?"

"Enoch Hoyle will account for that," I replied, and stepped down.

I suppose there never was a prouder man than was old Enoch that day.

"You reside at Merrydale, Mr. Hoyle?"

"'_Mister_ Hoyle,' he ca'd me, th' first an' last time i' mi life aw'm be ca'd owt but Enoch. Eh! but he knows a gentleman when he sees one, does 'Torney Blackburn," was Enoch's comment when he told the story of that day's doings, which he did at least once a day for the rest of his life, too often, population being but sparse in our neighbourhood, to ears grown weary of the tale.

"Aye, to be sewer, at Merrydale. Aw were born theer just seventy-two year sin' come next Xermas. Mi feyther were Sammy Hoyle, owd Sammy Hoyle--yo'll ha' heard tell of him, aw mak' no doubt--an' mi mother were one of th' Garsides o' Rocher. I'm th' only chick they ever had, an' aw'v heerd mi mother say aw were varry delikit--"

"Oh, stop him, for heaven's sake," ejaculated Mr. Alison, "or we shall have the old fool's autobiography from birth to now."

"Yes, yes Mr. Hoyle, quite so. And what occupation do you follow?"

"Eh?"

"What are you?"

"Aw'm th' senior deacon at Pow Moor Chapel."

"Yes, yes. How do you earn your living?"

"Oh! I see what you mean. Well, when aw were a little un aw used to help mi mother to wind th' bobbins, an' mi feyther to sprinkle th' wool wi' lant--"

"Yes, yes, but what do you do now?"

"Aw'm a weiver, to be sewer. Aw'n gotten th' same loom as mi owd father had, an' it's noan a foul loom yet, but it's been weel done to. Yo' see, there's a deal o' human natur' i' a loom, an'--"

"Quite so, quite so. And you are a worshipper at Pole Moor Chapel?"

"Aye, to be sewer aw am. Aw were dipped when aw were nobbut seventeen year owd, but with th' conviction o' sin full on me. Mi feyther, owd Sammy, yo'll mind me tellin' on him, were one o' th' founders o' Pole Moor, an' so when aw come to years o' discretion--"

"Exactly, and you know the last witness?"

"Know him? Why, in course aw do. Aw've dandled him o' mi knee an' spanked him mony's the time. Aw mind his mother, poor saint. Oo's dead now, but aw can tell on _her_, too, if yo're for speerin'."

"No, no, Mr. Hoyle I'm certainly not for speering about the late Mrs. Holmes, a most worthy woman, no doubt."

"Yo' may say that, an' n'er go back on it. Aw'n heerd say 'at 'tornies nivver speak th' truth excep' bi accident, but that's Gospel truth, choose how. Aw mind when Mister Holmes browt her to th' Powl, a slip o' a lass, in a way o' speikin', an' noan cut out for yar rough ways--a dainty bloom, yo' may say, an' sooin frost-bitten. Oo deed, poor soul, when Ruth were a babby."

"Yes, yes, but I want to ask you--I think you keep Belgium hares in addition to your weaving?"

"Aye, that's what aw'n come here to speik about, only tha'rt so long i' gettin' to th' root o' the matter, like some o' th' long-winded parsons it pleases the Lord to afflict us wi' at th' Powl, when Mr. Holmes exchanges pulpits wi' a brother minister, a practice aw cannot say aw entirely howd wi', though some fowk reckon a change o' spiritual diet be gooid for th' soul. But aw say if watter-porridge sits weel o' yo'r stomach, stick to watter-porridge an' no fal-lals. An' it's same wi' religion an' preachers."

"But what about those hares, Mr. Hoyle?"

"Well, aw were tellin' yo', weren't aw, but yo" won't let me get a word in edgeways, which aw rekkon talkin' 's yo' trade, other bi th' piece or th' hour. Yo' see it were this way. When my poor owd missus deed--it were th' brownchitis took her i' th' finish--'Affliction's sore long time she bore, physicians were i' vain,' as yo' may see for yo'r sen on her gravestone--"

"Oh, dear; oh, dear," ejaculated Mr. Alison; "shall we never get to the hares?"

"Better let him have his head, Mr. Blackburn," suggested the Chairman, "else we shall be here till midnight."

"Yo' see, it were i' this way," continued the imperturbable Enoch, "as aw wer' sayin', when th' owd gentleman put his oar in. Aw knew thi feyther, sir," turning to the Bench, and beaming benevolently on the Chairman "an' a proper man he were, an' aw hopes yo' tak' after him. Aw mind me, when he wer' at th bull-baitin' at Bullroyd, up Long'ud way--yo'll know th' spot--but he took to cock-feightin' 'i his owd age--"

"I daresay, Mr. Hoyle," interrupted the Chairman not apparently, displeased by these family reminiscences "but you shall tell me about that another time. About those hares, now."

"Well, aw were sayin', when my missus deed--brownchitis aw think aw tell'd yo' it were--aw felt mortal lonesome like, all bi missen. Clack o' th' loom's all varry well, an' a sweet music for onnybody's ears, but when yo'n bin used to it for nigh on fifty year yo miss th' clack of a woman's tongue. So aw thowt aw mun ha' company o' some soort. Aw did think o' gettin' wed agen, an' there were a widder woman up bi Nont Sarah's 'at aw rother fancied. So aw kept mi e'en on her. Oo axed me to tea one Sunday after th' service, an' we'd some cheese to 't. Aw noticed oo cut th' rind off her cheese. Nah! a slut of a woman 'll eit th' cheese an' rind an' all, a wasteful one'll cut th' rind off, but a careful one'll pare it. So aw concluded oo were none for Enoch Hoyle."

"So you took up with hares?" put in Mr. Blackburn, spying his chance.

"Tha's getten it. Aw did think o' a cat. But, yo' see, yo' cannot eit cats, nor kitlings nother, though they do say 'at there's a chap i' Huthersfelt, at sells pork-pies 'at gets through a seet o' cats i' a varry mysterious fashion. But aw couldn't eit em missen, not knowingly. Though, to be sewer, if a Frenchman can eit a frog, aw dunnot see but what a felly might stomach a nice weel-fed kitling. But aw nivver han."

"So you kept hares?"

"Aye them two owd does theer be two o' my rearin', an' sorry aw were to part wi' 'em, but when it come to a matter o' confoundin' the ways o' the unrighteous, an' partickler when little Ruth yonder med a point on it, an' after aw'd takken it to the Lord i' prayer, an' when Mr. Holmes gay' me hawf-a-craan apiece for 'em, which were more nor aw cud reasonably expec' for owd uns awmost past breedin', aw seemed to see the pointin' hand o' Providence, an' so theer they be."

"And how do you know they are the same couple I understand you sold to Mr. Holmes?"

"Well, Ruth towd me …."

"I'm afraid we cannot have what Ruth told you."

"What for, no? Oo'd tell me nowt wrang, I'll go bail. Aw've sworn o' this blessed book to tell th' truth, th' whole truth, an' nowt but th' truth, an' awst noan lig easy o' mi bed this neet, if aw dunnot."

"Oh! let him have his way. I'm sick of the case, anyway," put in Mr. Alison.

"Well, Ruth told you?"

"Well, Ruth said there wor' a plot o' th' part o' them two gamekeepers to catch Ephraim Sykes, Eph. o' th' Burnplatters, yo' know, i' an offence, an' oo'd set her brains to work to--what did oo ca' it. Guise-hong, my mem'ry 's noan what it used to be oh, frus, frus summat."

"Frustrate, perhaps?"

"Aye, that's th' verry word, tho' how yo' come to leet on it so clivver's beyond me. An' oo wanted to know if aw could sweer to 'em agen, tho' that wasn't th' word oo used--iden--iden--drat it all, it's slipped me again."

"Identify, perhaps?"

"Tha's getten it agen--see what eddication 'll do. Identify--that were it, for a sovrin'. Nah, yo' see, one hare's varry like another, especially when they're dead. Yo' can pick 'em out when they're wick, if yo're used to 'em, for even a hare 'll ha' a look o' its own. But when they're dead it's different. So I were fair flummaxed. But Ruth theer weren't oo gate a pair tweezers, an' we snipped their front teeth, an' if them two hasn't teeth yo' may ca' Enoch Hoyle a liar, an he'll eit them hares, skin an' fur an' all. Oo tuk 'em away wi' her, an aw'n nivver seed 'em sin 'till this day o' our Lord."

"Well, I think that will do, Mr. Hoyle, unless my friend would like to have a few words with you."

"Not for a pension." said Mr. Alison, emphatically.

"Perhaps them gentlemen up theer 'ud like to ax me summat," said Enoch. "Aw've noan said haulf mi nominy yet. Aw had prepared a few words anent the wickedness o' layin' i' wait to tak' another man's life, or what's awmost as bad, another man's liberty, an' we'n plenty o' time i' front of us…."

"Stand down!" bawled a constable, and Enoch, with great dignity and with obvious reluctance, left the witness box, having, as he boasted all his life, confounded the mighty that sit in high places.

"I suppose you can prove that these hares were handed to the prisoner?" asked the Clerk of Mr. Blackburn.

"Certainly."

The Clerk looked at Mr. Alison, and shrugged his shoulders "The biter's bit, eh? Now, Mr. Alison, what have _you_ to say?"

"Nothing your Worships. The case is in your hands."

"You may go, Young man," said the chairman to Ephraim. Then, such is the force of habit: "Let this be a lesson to you. You've escaped this time, thanks to the ingenuity of your friends; but the jug that goes oft to the well gets broken at last. The case is dismissed."

And Ephraim stepped out of the dock a free man, amid cheers which the constable tried in vain to suppress.