“Eh! what is that?  I beg your pardon, Crackenfudge; I have treated you discourteously and badly—­but you will excuse me.  I have had such cause for excitement as is sufficient to drive me almost mad.  What is the good news you speak of, Crackenfudge?”

“Do you know who the fellow in the inn is, Sir Thomas?”

“Not I; but I wish I did.”

“Well, then, a’ can tell you.”

Sir Thomas turned abruptly about, and, fastening his dark gleaming eyes upon him, surveyed him with an expression of which no language could give an adequate description.

“Crackenfudge,” said he, in a voice condensed into tremendous power and interest, “keep me not a moment in suspense—­don’t tamper with me, sir—­don’t attempt to play upon me—­don’t sell your intelligence, nor make a bargain for it.  Curse your magistracy—­have I not already told you that I will help you to it?  What is the intelligence—­the good news you speak of?”

“Why, simply this, Sir Thomas,” replied the other,—­“that a’ know who and what the fellow in the inn is; but, for God’s sake, Sir Thomas, keep your temper within bounds, or if you don’t, a’ must only go home again, and keep my secret to myself.  You have treated me very badly, Sir Thomas; you have insulted me, Sir Thomas; you have grossly offended me, Sir Thomas, in your own house, too, and without the slightest provocation.  A’ have told you that a’ know everything about the fellow in the inn; and now, sir, you may thank the treatment a’ received that a’ simply tell you that, and have the honor of bidding you good day.”

“Crackenfudge,” replied.  Sir Thomas, who in an instant saw his error, and felt in all its importance the value of the intelligence with which the other was charged, “I beg your pardon; but you may easily see that I was not—­that I am not myself.”

“You pledge your honor, Sir Thomas, that you will get me the magistracy?  A’ know you can if you set about it.  A’ declare to God, Sir Thomas, a’ will never have a happy day unless I’m able to write J. P. after my name.  A’ can think of nothing else.  And, Sir Thomas, listen to me; my friends—­a’ mean my relations—­poor, honest, contemptible creatures, are all angry with me, because a’ changed my name to Crackenfudge.”

“But what has this to do with the history of the fellow in the inn?” replied Sir Thomas.  “With respect to the change of your name, I have been given to understand that your relations have been considerably relieved by it.”

“How, Sir Thomas?”

“Because they say that they escape the disgrace of the connection; but, as for myself,” added the baronet, with a peculiar sneer, “I don’t pretend to know anything about the matter—­one way or other.  But let it pass, however; and now for your intelligence.”

“But you didn’t pledge your honor that you would get me the magistracy.”

“If,” said.  Sir Thomas, “the information you have to communicate be of the importance I expect, I pledge my honor, that whatever man can do to serve you in that matter, I will.  You know I cannot make magistrates at my will—­I am not the lord chancellor.”