“Gaffer,” began Old Amos, saluting us with his usual grin, as he came up, “we be wishful to ax ’ee a question—­we be wishful to know wheer be Black Jarge, which you ‘avin’ gone to fetch ’im, an’ bring ’im ’ome again—­them was your words.”

“Ah!” nodded Job, “them was your very words, ’bring ’im ’ome again,’ says you—­”

“But you didn’t bring ’im ’ome,” continued Old Amos, “leastways, not in the cart wi’ you.  Dutton ’ere—­James Dutton see you come drivin’ ’ome, but ‘e didn’t see no Jarge along wi’ you—­no, not so much as you could shake a stick at, as you might say.  Speak up, James Dutton you was a-leanin’ over your front gate as Gaffer come drivin’ ‘ome, wasn’t you, an’ you see Gaffer plain as plain, didn’t you?”

“W’ich, me wishin’ no offense, an’ no one objectin’—­I did,” began the Apology, perspiring profusely as usual, “but I takes the liberty to say as it were a spade, an’ not a gate—­leastways—­”

“But you didn’t see no signs o’ Jarge, did ye?” demanded Old Amos, “as ye might say, neither ’ide nor ’air of ’im—­speak up, James Dutton.”

“W’ich, since you axes me, I makes so bold as to answer—­an’ very glad I’m sure—­no; though as to ‘ide an’ ‘air, I aren’t wishin’ to swear to, me not bein’ near enough—­w’ich could only be expected, an’ very much obliged, I’m sure.”

“Ye see, Gaffer,” pursued Amos, “if you didn’t bring Jarge back wi’ you—­w’ich you said you would—­the question we axes is—­wheer be Jarge?”

“Ah!—­wheer?” nodded Job gloomily.  Here the Ancient was evidently at a loss, to cover which, he took a vast pinch of snuff.

“’Ow be we to know as ‘e bean’t pinin’ away in a dungeon cell wi’ irons on ‘is legs, an’ strapped in a straitjacket an—­”

Old Amos stopped, open-mouthed and staring, for out from the gloom of the smithy issued Black George himself, with Prue upon his arm.  The Ancient stared also, but, dissembling his vast surprise, he dealt the lid of his snuffbox two loud, triumphant knocks.

“Peter,” said he, rising stiffly, “Peter, lad, I were beginnin’ to think as Jarge were never comin’ in to breakfus’ at all.  I’ve waited and waited till I be so ravenous as a lion an’ tiger—­but ’ere ’e be at last, Peter, ’ere ‘e be, so let’s go in an’ eat summ’at.”  Saying which, he turned his back upon his discomfited tormentors, and led me into the kitchen of the inn.

And there were the white-capped maids setting forth such a breakfast as only such a kitchen could produce.  And, presently, there was Prue herself, with George hanging back, something shamefaced, till the Ancient had hobbled forward to give him welcome.  And there was honest Simon, all wonderment and hearty greeting.  And (last, but by no means least) there were the battered cutlasses, the brass jack, and the glittering pots and pans—­glittering and gleaming and twinkling a greeting likewise, and with all their might.

Ah! but they little guessed why Prue’s eyes were so shy and sweet, or why the color came and went in her pretty cheeks; little they guessed why, this golden-haired giant trod so lightly, and held his tall head so very high—­little they dreamed of the situation as yet; had they done so, surely they must, one and all, have fallen upon that curly, golden head and buried it beneath their gleaming, glittering, twinkling jealousy.