“No; I’m here to ax ‘e frank an’ plain, as a sportsman an’ a straight man wi’ a gude heart most times, to tell me what you ’m gwaine to do ‘bout this job.  I’m auld, an’ I assure ’e you’ll hate yourself if you give un up.  ’T would be outside your carater to do it.”

“You say that!  Would you harbour a convict from Princetown if you found him hiding on your farm?”

“Ban’t a like case.  Theer ’s the personal point of view, if you onderstand me.  A man deserts from the army ten years ago, an’ you, a sort o’ amateur soldier, feels ’t is your duty to give un to justice.”

“Well, isn’t that what has happened?”

“No fay!  Nothing of the sort.  If ’t was your duty, why didn’t you do it fust minute you found it out?  If you’d writ to the authorities an’ gived the man up fust moment, I might have said ’t was a hard deed, but I’d never have dared to say ’t weern’t just.  Awnly you done no such thing.  You nursed the power an’ sucked the thought, same as furriners suck at poppy poison.  You played with the picture of revenge against a man you hated, an’ let the idea of what you’d do fill your brain; an’ then, when you wanted bigger doses, you told Phoebe what you knawed—­reckoning as she’d tell Will bimebye.  That’s bad, Jan Grimbal—­worse than poisoning foxes, by God!  An’ you knaw it.”

“Who are you, to judge me and my motives?”

“An auld man, an’ wan as be deeply interested in this business.  Time was when we thought alike touching the bwoy; now we doan’t; ’cause your knowledge of un hasn’t grawed past the point wheer he downed us, an’ mine has.”

“You’re a fool to say so.  D’ you think I haven’t watched the young brute these many years?  Self-sufficient, ignorant, hot-headed, always in the wrong.  What d’ you find to praise in the clown?  Look at his life.  Failure! failure! failure! and making of enemies at every turn.  Where would he be to-day but for you?”

“Theer ’s a rare gert singleness of purpose ’bout un.”

“A grand success he is, no doubt.  I suppose you couldn’t get on without him now.  Yet you cursed the cub freely enough once.”

“Bitter speeches won’t serve ’e, Grimbal; but they show me mighty clear what’s hid in you.  Your sawl ‘s torn every way by this thing, an’ you turn an’ turn again to it, like a dog to his vomit, yet the gude in ’e drags ’e away.”

“Better cut all that.  You won’t tell me what you’ve come for, so I’ll tell you.  You want me to promise not to move in this matter,—­is that so?”

“Why, not ezackly.  I want more ’n that.  I never thought for a minute you would do it, now you’ve let the time pass so far.  I knaw you’ll never act so ugly a paart now; but Will doan ‘t, an’ he’ll never b’lieve me if I told un.”

The other made a sound, half growl, half mirthless laugh.

“You’ve taken it all for granted, then—­you, who know more about what ’s in my mind than I do myself?  You’re a fond old man; and if you’d wanted to screw me up to the pitch of taking the necessary trouble, you couldn’t have gone a better way.  I’ve been too busy to bother about the young rascal of late or he’d lie in gaol now.”