Ancient.  An’ up ‘e’d get, like Samson again, Peter, an’ give ‘isself a shake; bellerin’—­like a bull o’ Bashan—­

Simon.  Ye see, they fou’t so close together that the keepers was afear’d to use their guns—­

Ancient (indignantly).  Guns!—­who’s a-talkin’ o’ guns?  Simon, my bye—­you be allus a-maggin’ an’ a-maggin’; bridle thy tongue, lad, bridle thy tongue afore it runs away wi’ ye.

Simon (sheepishly).  All right, Old Un—­fire away!

But, at this juncture, Old Amos hove in view, followed by the Apologetic Dutton, with Job and sundry others, on their way to work, and, as they came, they talked together, with much solemn wagging of heads.  Having reached the door of “The Bull,” they paused and greeted us, and I thought Old Amos’s habitual grin seemed a trifle more pronounced than usual.

“So poor Jarge ‘as been an’ gone an’ done for ’isself at last, eh?  Oh, my soul! think o’ that, now!” sighed Old Amos.

“Allus knowed as ’e would!” added Job; “many’s the time I’ve said as ‘e would, an’ you know it—­all on you.”

“It’ll be the Barbadies, or Austrayley!” grinned Amos; “transportation, it’ll be—­Oh, my soul! think o’ that now—­an’ ’im a Siss’n’urst man!”

“An’ all along o’ a couple o’—­rabbits!” said the Ancient, emphasizing the last word with a loud rap on his snuff-box.

“Pa’tridges, Gaffer!—­they was pa’tridges!” returned Old Amos.

“I allus said as Black Jarge’d come to a bad end,” reiterated Job, “an’ what’s more—­’e aren’t got nobody to blame but ’isself!”

“An’ all for a couple o’—­rabbits!” sighed the Ancient, staring Old Amos full in the eye.

“Pa’tridges, Gaffer, they was pa’tridges—­you, James Dutton—­was they pa’tridges or was they not—­speak up, James.”

Hereupon the man Dutton, all perspiring apology, as usual, shuffled forward, and, mopping his reeking brow, delivered himself in this wise: 

“W’ich I must say—­meanin’ no offence to nobody, an’ if so be, apologizin’—­w’ich I must say—­me ‘avin’ seen ’em—­they was —­leastways,” he added, as he met the Ancient’s piercing eye, “leastways—­they might ’ave been, w’ich—­if they ain’t—­no matter!”

Having said which, he apologetically smeared his face all over with his shirt-sleeve, and subsided again.

“It do wring my ‘eart—­ah, that it do! to think o’ pore Jarge a convic’ at Bot’ny Bay!” said Old Amos, “a-workin’, an’ diggin’, an’ slavin’ wi’ irons on ‘is legs an’ arms, a-jinglin’, an’ ajanglin’ when ’e walks.”

“Well, but it’s Justice, aren’t it?” demanded Job—­“a poacher’s a thief, an’ a thief’s a convic’—­or should be!”

“I’ve ’eerd,” said Old Amos, shaking his head, “I’ve ’eerd as they ties they convic’s up to posts, an’ lashes an’ lashes ’em wi’ the cat-o’-nine-tails!”

“They generally mostly deserves it!” nodded Job.

“But ’tis ‘ard to think o’ pore Jarge tied up to one o’ them floggin’-posts, wi’ ‘is back all raw an’ bleedin!” pursued Old Amos; “crool ‘ard it be, an’ ‘im such a fine, strappin’ young chap.”