“Baggered if it bau’t that damned Grimbal come arter my gate-post,” he gasped, launched instantly to high wakefulness by the suspicion.  Then, dragging on his trousers, and thrusting the tail of his nightshirt inside them, he tumbled down-stairs, with passion truly formidable, and hastened naked footed through the farmyard.

Four men blankly awaited him.  Ignoring their leader—­none other than Martin himself—­he turned upon Mr. Blee, who chanced to be nearest, and struck from his hand a pick.

“What be these blasted hookem-snivey dealings, then?” Will thundered out, “an’ who be you, you auld twisted thorn, to come here stealin’ my stone in the dead o’ night?”

Billy’s little eyes danced in the lantern fire, and he answered hastily before Martin had time to speak.

“Well, to be plain, the moon and the dog’s played us false, an’ you’d best to knaw the truth fust as last.  Mr. Grimbal’s writ you two straight, fair letters ‘bout this job, so he’ve explained to me, an’ you never so much as answered neither; so, seem’ this here’s a right Christian cross, ban’t decent it should bide head down’ards for all time.  An’ Mr. Grimbal have brought up a flam-new granite post, hasp an’ all complete—­’t is in the cart theer—­an’ he called on me as a discreet, aged man to help un, an’ so I did; an’ Peter Bassett an’ Sam Bonus here corned likewise, by my engagement, to do the heavy work an’ aid in a gude deed.”

“Dig an inch, wan of ’e, and I’ll shaw what’s a gude deed!  I doan’t want no talk with you or them hulking gert fules.  ’T is you I’d ax, Martin Grimbal, by what right you’m here.”

“You wouldn’t answer my letters, and I couldn’t find it in my heart to leave an important matter like this.  I know I wasn’t wise, but you don’t understand what a priceless thing this is.  I thought you’d find the new one in the morning and laugh at it.  For God’s sake be reasonable and sensible, Blanchard, and let me take it away.  There’s a new post I’ll have set up.  It’s here waiting.  I can’t do more.”

“But you’ll do a darned sight less.  Right’s right, an’ stealin’s stealin’.  You wasn’t wise, as you say—­far from it.  You’m in the wrong now, an’ you knaw it, whatever you was before.  A nice bobbery!  Why doan’t he take my plough or wan of the bullocks?  Damned thieves, the lot of’e!”

“Doan’t cock your nose so high, Farmer,” said Bonus, who had never spoken to Will since he left Newtake; “’t is very onhandsome of ’e to be tellin’ like this to gentle-folks.”

“Gentlefolks!  Gentlefolks would ax your help, wouldn’t they?  You, as be no better than a common poacher since I turned ’e off!  You shut your mouth and go home-long, an’ mind your awn business, an’ keep out o’ the game preserves.  Law’s law, as you’m like to find sooner’n most folks.”

This pointed allusion to certain rumours concerning the labourer’s present way of life angered Bonus not a little, but it also silenced him.