“He only snicked down vor a drop o’ brandy, vur he were clean rampin’ mazed wi’ tuth-ache.  He waited till pretty nigh dusk var the ole ladies tu be zafe.  ’Ee says they du take it by turns zo long as daylight du last, tu spy out wi’ their microscopes, are zum zuch, as none of Sir Timothy’s volk git tarking down this ways.  A drop o’ my zider might git tu their ’yeds,” said the landlord, sarcastically, “though they drinks Sir Timothy’s by the bucket-vull up tu Barracombe.”

“’Tis stronger than yars du be,” said Happy Jack.  “There baint no warter put tu’t, Joe Gudewyn.  The warter-varl be tu handy vur yure brewin’.”

“Zum of my customers has weak ’yeds, ’tis arl the better for they,” said Goodwyn, calmly.

“Then charge ’em accardin’, Mr. Landlord, charge ’em accardin’, zays I. Warter doan’t cost ’ee nart, du ’un?” said Happy Jack, triumphantly.

“‘Ere be the doctor goin’ on in’s trap, while yu du be tarking zo,” said the ploughman.  “Lard, he du be a vast goer, be Joe Blundell.”

“I drove zo vast as that, and vaster, when I kip a harse,” said the road-mender, jealously. “’Ee be a young man, not turned vifty.  I mind his vather and mother down tu Cullacott befar they was wed.  Why doan’t he go tu the war, that’s what I zay?”

“Sir Timothy doan’t hold wi’ the war,” said the landlord.

“Mar shame vor ’un,” said Happy Jack.  “But me and Zur Timothy, us made up our minds tu differ long ago.  I’m arl vor vighting vurriners—­Turks, Rooshans, Vrinchmen; ’tis arl one tu I.”

“Why doan’t ’ee volunteer thyself, Vather Jack?  Thee baint turned nointy yit, be ’ee?” said a labourer, winking heavily, to convey to the audience that the suggestion was a humorous one.

“Ah, zo I wude, and shute Boers wi’ the best on ’un.  But the Governmint baint got the zince tu ax me,” said Happy Jack, chuckling.  “The young volk baint nigh zo knowing as I du be.  Old Kruger wuden’t ha’ tuke in I, try as ’un wude.  I be zo witty as iver I can be.”

Dr. Blundell saluted the group before the inn as he turned his horse to climb the steep road to Barracombe.

No breath of wind stirred, and the smoke from the cottage chimneys was lying low in the valley, hovering over the river in the still air.

A few primroses peeped out of sheltered corners under the hedge, and held out a timid promise of spring.  The doctor followed the red road which wound between Sir Timothy’s carefully enclosed plantations of young larch, passed the lodge gates, which were badly in need of repair, and entered the drive.

CHAPTER II

The justice-room was a small apartment in the older portion of Barracombe House; the low windows were heavily latticed, and faced west.

Sir Timothy sat before his writing-table, which was heaped with papers, directories, and maps; but he could no longer see to read or write.  He made a stiff pretence of rising to greet the doctor as he entered, and then resumed his elbow-chair.