“Well, I don’t know,” rejoined the Ancient; “’is turnips was very good uns, as a rule, an’ fetched top prices in the markets.”

At this juncture there appeared a man in a cart, ahead of us, who flourished his whip and roared a greeting, a coarse-visaged, loud-voiced fellow, whose beefy face was adorned with a pair of enormous fiery whiskers that seemed forever striving to hide his ears, which last, being very large and red, stood boldly out at right angles to his head, refusing to be thus ambushed, and scorning all concealment.

“W’at—­be that the Old Un—­be you alive an’ kickin’ yet?”

“Ay, God be thanked, John!”

“And w’at be all this I ’ear about that theer Black Jarge—­’e never were much good—­but w’at be all this?”

“Lies, mostly, you may tak’ your oath!” nodded the Ancient.

“But ‘e’ve been took for poachin’, ah! an’ locked up at the ’All—­”

“An’ we ‘m goin’ to fetch un—­we be goin’ to see Squire—­”

“W’at—­you, Old Un?  You see Squire—­haw! haw!”

“Ah, me!—­an’ Peter, an’ Simon, ’ere—­why not?”

“You see ‘is Worship Sir Peregrine Beverley, Baronet, an’ Justice o’ the Peace—­you?  Ecod! that’s a good un—­danged if it ain’t!  An’ what might you be wishful to do when ye see ’im—­which ye won’t?”

“Fetch back Jarge, o’ course.”

“Old Un, you must be crazed in your lead, arter Jarge killin’ four keepers—­Sir Peregrine’s own keepers too—­shootin’ ’em stone dead, an’ three more a-dyin’—­”

“John,” said the Ancient, shaking his head, “that’s the worst o’ bein’ cursed wi’ ears like yourn—­”

“My ears is all right!” returned John, frowning.

“Oh, ah!” chuckled the old man, “your ears is all right, John —­prize ears, ye might call ’em; I never seed a pair better grow’d—­never, no!”

“A bit large, they may be,” growled John, giving a furtive pull to the nearest ambush, “but—­”

“Large as ever was, John!” nodded the Ancient—­“oncommon large! an’, consequent, they ketches a lot too much.  I’ve kep’ my eye on them ears o’ yourn for thirty year an’ more, John—­if so be as they grows any bigger, you’ll be ‘earin’ things afore they’re spoke, an’—­”

John gave a fierce tug to the ambush, muttered an oath, and, lashing up his horse, disappeared down the road in a cloud of dust.

“’Twere nigh on four year ago since Black Jarge thrashed John, weren’t it, Simon?”

“Ah!” nodded Simon, “John were in ‘The Ring’ then, Peter, an’ a pretty tough chap ‘e were, too, though a bit too fond o’ swingin’ wi’ ’is ‘right’ to please me.”

“’E were very sweet on Prue then, weren’t ’e, Simon?”

“Ah!” nodded Simon again; “’e were allus ’anging round ’The Bull’—­till I warned ’im off—­”

“An’-’e laughed at ’ee, Simon.”

“Ah! ‘e did that; an’ I were going to ’ave a go at ’im myself; an’ the chances are ’e’d ‘ave beat me, seein’ I ’adn’t been inside of a ring for ten year, when—­”