Now, before the inn was a small crowd gathered about a trap in which sat two men, one of whom Bellew recognised as the rednecked Corn-chandler Grimes, and the other, the rat-eyed Parsons.

The Corn-chandler was mopping violently at his face and neck down which ran, and to which clung, a foamy substance suspiciously like the froth of beer, and, as he mopped, his loud bra.s.sy voice shook and quavered with pa.s.sion.

"I tell ye--you shall get out o' my cottage!" he was saying, "I say you shall quit my cottage at the end o' the month,--and when I says a thing, I means it,--I say you shall get off of my property,--you--and that beggarly cobbler. I say you shall be throwed out o' my cottage,--lock, stock, and barrel. I say--"

"I wouldn't, Mr. Grimes,--leastways, not if I was you," another voice broke in, calm and deliberate. "No, I wouldn't go for to say another word, sir; because, if ye do say another word, I know a man as will drag you down out o' that cart, sir,--I know a man as will break your whip over your very own back, sir,--I know a man as will then take and heave you into the horse-pond, sir,--and that man is me--Sergeant Appleby, late of the Nineteenth Hussars, sir."

The Corn-chandler having removed most of the froth from his head and face, stared down at the straight, alert figure of the big Sergeant, hesitated, glanced at the Sergeant's fist which, though solitary, was large, and powerful, scowled at the Sergeant from his polished boots to the crown of his well-brushed hat (which perched upon his close-cropped, grey hair at a ridiculous angle totally impossible to any but an ex-cavalry-man), muttered a furious oath, and s.n.a.t.c.hing his whip, cut viciously at his horse, very much as if that animal had been the Sergeant himself, and, as the trap lurched forward, he shook his fist, and nodded his head.

"Out ye go,--at the end o' the month,--mind that!" he snarled and so, rattled away down the road still mopping at his head and neck until he had fairly mopped himself out of sight.

"Well, Sergeant," said Bellew extending his hand, "how are you!"

"Hearty, sir,--hearty I thank you, though, at this precise moment, just a leetle put out, sir. None the less I know a man as is happy to see you, Mr. Bellew, sir,--and that's me--Sergeant Appleby, at your service, sir. My cottage lies down the road yonder, an easy march--if you will step that far?--Speaking for my comrade and myself--we shall be proud for you to take tea with us--m.u.f.fins sir--shrimps, Mr. Bellew--also a pikelet or two.--Not a great feast--but tolerable good rations, sir--and plenty of 'em--what do you say?"

"I say--done, and thank you very much!"

So, without further parley, the Sergeant saluted divers of the little crowd, and, wheeling sharply, strode along beside Bellew, rather more stiff in the back, and fixed of eye than was his wont, and jingling his imaginary spurs rather more loudly than usual.

"You will be wondering at the tantrums of the man Grimes, sir,--of his ordering me and my comrade Peterday out of his cottage. Sir--I'll tell you--in two words. It's all owing to the sale--up at the Farm, sir. You see, Grimes is a great hand at buying things uncommonly cheap, and selling 'em--uncommonly dear. To-day it seems--he was disappointed--"

"Ah?" said Bellew.

"At exactly--twenty-three minutes to six, sir," said the Sergeant, consulting his large silver watch, "I were sitting in my usual corner--beside the chimley, sir,--when in comes Grimes--like a thunder-cloud.--Calls for a pint of ale--in a tankard. Tom draws pint--which Tom is the landlord, sir. 'Buy anything at the sale, Mr.

Grimes?' says Tom,--'Sale!' says Grimes, 'sale indeed!' and falls a cursing--folk up at the Farm--shocking--outrageous. Ends by threatening to foreclose mortgage--within the month. Upon which--I raise a protest--upon which he grows abusive,--upon which I was forced to pour his ale over him,--after which I ran him out into the road--and there it is, you see."

"And--he threatened to foreclose the mortgage on Dapplemere Farm, did he, Sergeant!"

"Within the month, sir!--upon which I warned him--inn parlour no place--lady's private money troubles--gaping crowd--dammit!"

"And so he is turning you out of his cottage?"

"Within the week, sir,--but then--beer down the neck--is rather unpleasant!" and here the Sergeant uttered a short laugh, and was immediately grave again. "It isn't," he went on, "it isn't as _I_ mind the inconvenience of moving, sir--though I shall be mighty sorry to leave the old place, still, it isn't that so much as the small corner cup-board, and my bookshelf by the chimley. There never was such a cup-board,--no sir,--there never was a cup-board so well calculated to hold a pair o' jack boots, not to mention spurs, highlows, burnishers, shoulder-chains, polishing brushes, and--a boot-jack, as that same small corner cup-board. As for the book-shelf beside the chimley, sir--exactly three foot three,--sunk in a recess--height, the third b.u.t.ton o' my coat,--capacity, fourteen books. You couldn't get another book on that shelf--no, not if you tried with a sledge-hammer, or a hydraulic engine. Which is highly surprising when you consider that fourteen books is the true, and exact number of books as I possess."

"Very remarkable!" said Bellew.

"Then again,--there's my comrade,--Peter Day (The Sergeant p.r.o.nounced it as though it were all one word). Sir, my comrade Peterday is a very remarkable man,--most cobblers are. When he's not cobbling, he's reading,--when not reading, he's cobbling, or mending clocks, and watches, and, betwixt this and that, my comrade has picked up a power of information,--though he lost his leg a doing of it--in a gale of wind--off the Cape of Good Hope, for my comrade was a sailor, sir.

Consequently he is a handy man, most sailors are and makes his own wooden legs, sir, he is also a musician--the tin whistle, sir,--and here we are!"

Saying which, the Sergeant halted, wheeled, opened a very small gate, and ushered Bellew into a very small garden bright with flowers, beyond which was a very small cottage indeed, through the open door of which there issued a most appetizing odour, accompanied by a whistle, wonderfully clear, and sweet, that was rendering "Tom Bowling" with many shakes, trills, and astonishing runs.

Peterday was busied at the fire with a long toasting-fork in his hand, but, on their entrance, breaking off his whistling in the very middle of a note, he sprang nimbly to his feet, (or rather, his foot), and stood revealed as a short, yet strongly built man, with a face that, in one way, resembled an island in that it was completely surrounded by hair, and whisker. But it was, in all respects, a vastly pleasant island to behold, despite the somewhat craggy prominences of chin, and nose, and brow. In other words, it was a pleasing face notwithstanding the fierce, thick eye-brows which were more than offset by the merry blue eyes, and the broad, humourous mouth below.

"Peterday," said the Sergeant, "Mr. Bel-lew!"

"Glad to see you sir," said the mariner, saluting the visitor with a quick bob of the head, and a backward sc.r.a.pe of the wooden leg. "You couldn't make port at a better time, sir,--and because why?--because the kettle's a biling, sir, the m.u.f.fins is piping hot, and the shrimps is a-laying hove to, waiting to be took aboard, sir." Saying which, Peterday bobbed his head again, shook his wooden leg again, and turned away to reach another cup and saucer.

It was a large room for so small a cottage, and comfortably furnished, with a floor of red tile, and with a grate at one end well raised up from the hearth. Upon the hob a kettle sang murmurously, and on a trivet stood a plate whereon rose a tower of toasted m.u.f.fins. A round table occupied the middle of the floor and was spread with a snowy cloth whereon cups and saucers were arranged, while in the midst stood a great bowl of shrimps.

Now above the mantel-piece, that is to say, to the left of it, and fastened to the wall, was a length of rope cunningly tied into what is called a "running bowline," above this, on a shelf specially contrived to hold it, was the model of a full-rigged ship that was--to all appearances--making excellent way of it, with every st.i.tch of canvas set and drawing, alow and aloft; above this again, was a s.e.xtant, and a telescope. Opposite all these, upon the other side of the mantel, were a pair of stirrups, three pairs of spurs, two cavalry sabres, and a carbine, while between these objects, in the very middle of the chimney, uniting, as it were, the Army, and the Navy, was a portrait of Queen Victoria.

Bellew also noticed that each side of the room partook of the same characteristics, one being devoted to things nautical, the other to objects military. All this Bellew noticed while the soldier was brewing the tea, and the sailor was bestowing the last finishing touches to the m.u.f.fins.

"It aren't often as we're honoured wi' company, sir," said Peterday, as they sat down, "is it, d.i.c.k?"

"No," answered the Sergeant, handing Bellew the shrimps.

"We ain't had company to tea," said Peterday, pa.s.sing Bellew the m.u.f.fins, "no, we ain't had company to tea since the last time Miss Anthea, and Miss Priscilla honoured us, have we, d.i.c.k?"

"Honoured us," said the Sergeant, nodding his head approvingly, "is the one, and only word for it, Peterday."

"And the last time was this day twelve months, sir,--because why?--because this day twelve months 'appened to be Miss Priscilla's birthday,--consequently to-day is her birthday, likewise,--wherefore the m.u.f.fins, and wherefore the shrimps, sir, for they was this day to have once more graced our board, Mr. Bellew."

"'Graced our board,'" said the Sergeant, nodding his head again, "'graced our board,' is the only expression for it, Peterday. But they disappointed us, Mr. Bellew, sir,--on account of the sale."

"Messmate," said Peterday, with a note of concern in his voice, "how's the wind?"

"Tolerable, comrade, tolerable!"

"Then--why forget the tea?"

"Tea!" said the Sergeant with a guilty start, "why--so I am!--Mr. Bellew sir,--your pardon!" and, forthwith he began to pour out the tea very solemnly, but with less precision of movement than usual, and with abstracted gaze.

"The Sergeant tells me you are a musician," said Bellew, as Peterday handed him another m.u.f.fin.

"A musician,--me! think o' that now! To be sure, I do toot on the tin whistle now and then, sir, such things as 'The British Grenadiers,' and the 'Girl I left behind me,' for my shipmate, and 'The Bay o' Biscay,'

and 'A Life on the Ocean Wave,' for myself,--but a musician, Lord! Ye see, sir," said Peterday, taking advantage of the Sergeant's abstraction, and whispering confidentially behind his m.u.f.fin, "that messmate o' mine has such a high opinion o' my gifts as is fair over-powering, and a tin whistle is only a tin whistle, after all."

"And it is about the only instrument I could ever get the hang of," said Bellew.

"Why--do you mean as you play, sir?"

"Hardly that, but I make a good bluff at it."

"Why then,--I've got a couple o' very good whistles,--if you're so minded we might try a doo-et, sir, arter tea."

"With pleasure!" nodded Bellew. But, hereupon, Peterday noticing that the Sergeant ate nothing, leaned over and touched him upon the shoulder.

"How's the wind, now, Shipmate?" he enquired.

"Why so so, Peterday, fairish! fairish!" said the Sergeant, stirring his tea round and round, and with his gaze fixed upon the opposite wall.

"Then messmate,--why not a m.u.f.fin, or even a occasional shrimp,--where be your appet.i.te?"

"Peterday," said the Sergeant, beginning to stir his tea faster than ever, and with his eyes still fixed, "consequent upon disparaging remarks having been pa.s.sed by one Grimes,--our landlord,--concerning them as should not be mentioned in a inn parlour--or anywhere else--by such as said Grimes,--I was compelled to pour--a tankard of beer--over said Grimes, our landlord,--this arternoon, Peterday, at exactly--twelve and a half minutes past six, by my watch,--which done,--I ran our landlord--out into the road, Peterday, say--half a minute later, which would make it precisely thirteen minutes after the hour. Consequent upon which, comrade--we have received our marching orders."

"What messmate, is it heave our anchor, you mean?"