“In a friendly way, Missis,”—­Sedgett fixed on the compliment to his power of propagating news—­“in a friendly way.  You can’t accuse me of leavin’ out the ‘l’ in your name, now, can you?  I make that observation,”—­the venomous tattler screwed himself up to the widow insinuatingly, as if her understanding could only be seized at close quarters, “I make that observation, because poor Dick Boulby, your lamented husband—­eh! poor Dick!  You see, Missis, it ain’t the tough ones last longest:  he’d sing, ‘I’m a Sea Booby,’ to the song, ’I’m a green Mermaid:’  poor Dick! ‘a-shinin’ upon the sea-deeps.’  He kept the liquor from his head, but didn’t mean it to stop down in his leg.”

“Have you done, Mr. Sedgett?” said the widow, blandly.

“You ain’t angry, Missis?”

“Not a bit, Mr. Sedgett; and if I knock you over with the flat o’ my hand, don’t you think so.”

Sedgett threw up the wizened skin of his forehead, and retreated from the bar.  At a safe distance, he called:  “Bad news that about Bob Eccles swallowing a blow yesterday!”

Mrs. Boulby faced him complacently till he retired, and then observed to those of his sex surrounding her, “Don’t ‘woman-and-dog-and-walnut-tree’ me!  Some of you men ’d be the better for a drubbing every day of your lives.  Sedgett yond’ ’d be as big a villain as his son, only for what he gets at home.”

That was her way of replying to the Parthian arrow; but the barb was poisoned.  The village was at fever heat concerning Robert, and this assertion that he had swallowed a blow, produced almost as great a consternation as if a fleet of the enemy had been reported off Sandy Point.

Mrs. Boulby went into her parlour and wrote a letter to Robert, which she despatched by one of the loungers about the bar, who brought back news that three of the gentlemen of Fairly were on horseback, talking to Farmer Eccles at his garden gate.  Affairs were waxing hot.  The gentlemen had only to threaten Farmer Eccles, to make him side with his son, right or wrong.  In the evening, Stephen Bilton, the huntsman, presented himself at the door of the long parlour of the Pilot, and loud cheers were his greeting from a full company.

“Gentlemen all,” said Stephen, with dapper modesty; and acted as if no excitement were current, and he had nothing to tell.

“Well, Steeve?” said one, to encourage him.

“How about Bob, to-day?” said another.

Before Stephen had spoken, it was clear to the apprehension of the whole room that he did not share the popular view of Robert.  He declined to understand who was meant by “Bob.”  He played the questions off; and then shrugged, with, “Oh, let’s have a quiet evening.”

It ended in his saying, “About Bob Eccles?  There, that’s summed up pretty quick—­he’s mad.”

“Mad!” shouted Warbeach.

“That’s a lie,” said Mrs. Boulby, from the doorway.

“Well, mum, I let a lady have her own opinion.”  Stephen nodded to her.  “There ain’t a doubt as t’ what the doctors ’d bring him in I ain’t speaking my ideas alone.  It’s written like the capital letters in a newspaper.  Lunatic’s the word!  And I’ll take a glass of something warm, Mrs. Boulby.  We had a stiff run to-day.”