The farmer flung back in his chair.  “Lie number Two,” said his shoulders, soured by the British aversion to being plotted at, and not dealt with openly.

“And ye’ve the money ready, young gentleman?”

“I shall ask my father for it.”

“And he’ll hand’t out?”

“Certainly he will!”

Richard had not the slightest intention of ever letting his father into his counsels.

“A good three hundred pounds, ye know?” the farmer suggested.

No consideration of the extent of damages, and the size of the sum, affected young Richard, who said boldly, “He will not object when I tell him I want that sum.”

It was natural Farmer Blaize should be a trifle suspicious that a youth’s guarantee would hardly be given for his father’s readiness to disburse such a thumping bill, unless he had previously received his father’s sanction and authority.

“Hum!” said he, “why not ’a told him before?”

The farmer threw an objectionable shrewdness into his query, that caused Richard to compress his mouth and glance high.

Farmer Blaize was positive ’twas a lie.

“Hum!  Ye still hold to’t you fired the rick?” he asked.

“The blame is mine!” quoth Richard, with the loftiness of a patriot of old Rome.

“Na, na!” the straightforward Briton put him aside.  “Ye did’t, or ye didn’t do’t.  Did ye do’t, or no?”

Thrust in a corner, Richard said, “I did it.”

Farmer Blaize reached his hand to the bell.  It was answered in an instant by little Lucy, who received orders to fetch in a dependent at Belthorpe going by the name of the Bantam, and made her exit as she had entered, with her eyes on the young stranger.

“Now,” said the farmer, “these be my principles.  I’m a plain man, Mr. Feverel.  Above board with me, and you’ll find me handsome.  Try to circumvent me, and I’m a ugly customer.  I’ll show you I’ve no animosity.  Your father pays—­you apologize.  That’s enough for me!  Let Tom Bakewell fight’t out with the Law, and I’ll look on.  The Law wasn’t on the spot, I suppose? so the Law ain’t much witness.  But I am.  Leastwise the Bantam is.  I tell you, young gentleman, the Bantam saw’t!  It’s no moral use whatever your denyin’ that ev’dence.  And where’s the good, sir, I ask?  What comes of ’t?  Whether it be you, or whether it be Tom Bakewell—­ain’t all one?  If I holds back, ain’t it sim’lar?  It’s the trewth I want!  And here’t comes,” added the farmer, as Miss Lucy ushered in the Bantam, who presented a curious figure for that rare divinity to enliven.

CHAPTER IX