“That will be for me,” said Ransome.  “I thought I should not get leave to drink my tea in peace.”

He was right; a mounted policeman brought him a note from the mayor, telling him word had come into the town that there was something wrong with Ousely dam.  He was to take the mayor’s horse, and ride up at once to the reservoir, and, if there was any danger, to warn the valley.

“This looks serious,” said Ransome.  “I must wish you good-by.”

“Take a piece of advice with you.  I hear that dam is too full; if so, don’t listen to advice from anybody, but open the sluices of the waste-pipes, and relieve the pressure; but if you find a flaw in the embankment, don’t trifle, blow up the waste-wear at once with gunpowder.  I wish I had a horse, I’d go with you.  By the way, if there is the least danger of that dam bursting, of course you will give me warning in time, and I’ll get her out of the house at once.”

“What, do you think the water would get as far as this, to do any harm?  It is six miles.”

“It might.  Look at the form of the ground; it is a regular trough from that dam to Hillsborough.  My opinion is, it would sweep everything before it, and flood Hillsborough itself—­the lower town.  I shall not go to bed, old fellow, till you come back and tell me it is all right.”

With this understanding Ransome galloped off.  On his way he passed by the house where he suspected coining.  The shutters were closed, but his experienced eye detected a bright light behind one of them, and a peculiar smoke from the chimney.

Adding this to his other evidence, he now felt sure the inmates were coiners, and he felt annoyed.  “Fine I look,” said he, “walking tamely past criminals at work, and going to a mayor’s nest six miles off.”

However he touched the horse with his heel, and cantered forward on his errand.

John Ransome rode up to the Ousely Reservoir, and down again in less than an hour and a half; and every incident of those two rides is imprinted on his memory for life.

He first crossed the water at Poma bridge.  The village of that name lay on his right, toward Hillsborough, and all the lights were out except in the two public houses.  One of these, “The Reindeer,” was near the bridge, and from it a ruddy glare shot across the road, and some boon companions were singing, in very good harmony, a trite Scotch chorus: 

     “We are no that fou, we are no that fou,
       But just a drappie in our ee;
     The cock may craw, the day may daw,
       But still we’ll taste the barley bree.”

Ransome could hear the very words; he listened, he laughed, and then rode up the valley till he got opposite a crinoline-wire factory called the “Kildare Wheel.”  Here he observed a single candle burning; a watcher, no doubt.

The next place he saw was also on the other side the stream; Dolman’s farm-house, the prettiest residence in the valley.  It was built of stone, and beautifully situated on a promontory between two streams.  It had a lawn in front, which went down to the very edge of the water, and was much admired for its close turf and flowers.  The farm buildings lay behind the house.