“Yes,” said Mr. Quince, nodding, “he can do that.  As for his folks knocking the place about, if you like to tie up one or two of them nasty, savage dogs of yours to the stable, well, it’s your stable, and you can fasten your dogs to it if you like.  And you’ve generally got a man about the yard.”

Mr. Hogg smacked his thigh in ecstasy.

“But—­” began the farmer.

“That’s the law,” said the autocratic Mr. Quince, sharply.  “O’ course, if you think you know more about it than I do, I’ve nothing more to say.”

“I don’t want to do nothing I could get into trouble for,” murmured Mr. Rose.

“You can’t get into trouble by doing as I tell you,” said the shoemaker, impatiently.  “However, to be quite on the safe side, if I was in your place I should lose the key.”

“Lose the key?” said the farmer, blankly.

“Lose the key,” repeated the shoemaker, his eyes watering with intense appreciation of his own resourcefulness.  “You can find it any time you want to, you know.  Keep him there till he promises to give up your daughter, and tell him that as soon as he does you’ll have a hunt for the key.”

Mr. Rose regarded him with what the shoemaker easily understood to be speechless admiration.

“I—­I’m glad I came to you,” said the farmer, at last.

“You’re welcome,” said the shoemaker, loftily.  “I’m always ready to give advice to them as require it.”

“And good advice it is,” said the smiling Mr. Hogg.  “Why don’t you behave yourself, Joe Garnham?” he demanded, turning fiercely on a listener.

Mr. Garnham, whose eyes were watering with emotion, attempted to explain, but, becoming hysterical, thrust a huge red handkerchief to his mouth and was led away by a friend.  Mr. Quince regarded his departure with mild disdain.

“Little things please little minds,” he remarked.

“So they do,” said Mr. Hogg.  “I never thought—­What’s the matter with you, George Askew?”

Mr. Askew, turning his back on him, threw up his hands with a helpless gesture and followed in the wake of Mr. Garnham.  Mr. Hogg appeared to be about to apologise, and then suddenly altering his mind made a hasty and unceremonious exit, accompanied by the farmer.

Mr. Quince raised his eyebrows and then, after a long and meditative pinch of snuff, resumed his work.  The sun went down and the light faded slowly; distant voices sounded close on the still evening air, snatches of hoarse laughter jarred upon his ears.  It was clear that the story of the imprisoned swain was giving pleasure to Little Haven.

He rose at last from his chair and, stretching his long, gaunt frame, removed his leather apron, and after a wash at the pump went into the house.  Supper was laid, and he gazed with approval on the home-made sausage rolls, the piece of cold pork, and the cheese which awaited his onslaught.

“We won’t wait for Ned,” said Mrs. Quince, as she brought in a jug of ale and placed it by her husband’s elbow.