"He is dead and buried," said Mark, with his eyes more than half-shut now; "and if Richard Frayne rose from the dead no one would believe his tale."

"Will you accept my terms, or must I denounce you as one who has proved treacherous to his friend, acted like a blackleg at cards, and who obtained a hundred pounds by forging his cousin's name, and whose t.i.tle and estate he now holds?"

Mark stood there, white as a sheet, glaring at the speaker.

"How will you stand then, Mark, with officers and men of honour. Take my offer before you fall."

"I tell you," whispered Mark huskily, "that Richard Frayne is dead, and that you are an impostor."

"And I tell you that I will have no mercy now," cried Richard, excitedly. "I tried to spare you, but this life is intolerable since you came here. Once more, will you accept my terms?"

"Impostor!"

"Then take your chance!"

"Take yours!" cried Mark, in the same low whisper, as he s.n.a.t.c.hed a revolver from his pocket and fired quickly at his cousin, who sprang back, dragged a hop-pole from the side of the alley, snapping it in two, and, wild with agony and excitement, made a rush at Mark, who met it by standing firm, now taking aim at his cousin's head.

But he did not fire; for all at once Richard's knees gave way, the stout pole fell from his grasp, and, flinging up his hands, he swayed over backward with a crash, bearing down a portion of the hop-bine as he fell.

Mark stood there with his arm still rigidly extended, but altering his position now. Then, taking a step or two forward, he bent over, gazing fixedly at his cousin's distorted face, and taking aim once more as he stooped. He was about to draw the trigger, when the sharp barking of a dog arose from two or three hundred yards away.

The barking ceased, and Mark hurriedly thrust the pistol back in his pocket, but a sudden thought struck him, and, quickly stooping down, he seized his cousin's clenched right hand, dragged the fingers apart, and placed the weapon in his grasp; then laying the broken piece of hop-pole back, as if it had been broken in the fall, he rose and looked sharply up and down the alley, and stepped into the next, after peering through and looking up and down that.

The next moment his white and alarmed face reappeared, avoiding the body lying p.r.o.ne, as his eyes peered here and there till they fell upon the freshly-lit cigar he had dropped from his lips; for a faint streak of smoke rose from where it lay, and betrayed its presence.

Reaching forward, he caught it up, drew back and disappeared through the drooping hops, pa.s.sing from one alley to another, till he elected to walk straight on to a coppice on the other side; here lighting his cigar afresh, he began to walk back toward Ratcham at a slow steady pace, and without meeting a soul; neither did he hear the barking of the dog again.

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

SOMETHING IN THE HOPS.

The hops that year had been looking magnificent, and some of the growers were chuckling as they thought of the number of hundredweight that would go to the acre, while others took a prejudiced view of the case from a dread of the plentifulness of the crop bringing them down to a state of cheapness that would, when the cost of growing, picking, kilning, and packing had been deducted, leave nothing to pay the rent.

Then a change had come--a rapid change. There had been a fortnight's dry weather, and, as if by magic, the beautiful growths began to look foul, black, and yellow.

It was very simple--a few tiny flies came and laid eggs: the eggs hatched into little insects, and before many hours had elapsed these little insects, without waiting to become flies, had children, and these had children, and these had children as hard as ever they could, while the mothers and grandmothers and great-grandmothers kept on increasing until the vine-leaves became covered. These grew into hundreds, hundreds into thousands and tens and hundreds of thousands, then millions, and then into hundreds and thousands of millions, and then on and on till billions and trillions, and all the other brain-devouring lions covered the hop-grower's crops, threatening destruction to his hopes.

Then out came the engine to attack the plague.

It was an old parish fire-engine that used to live beneath the bells in the square tower of a church not many miles away. It had once been red; and upon rare occasions, when a cottage or wheat-rick caught or was set on fire and a glow gave warning, there would be a great deal of shouting, the clerk's house was raced to for the keys, and then the old engine was dragged out by its cross-handle, and a cheering crowd would trundle it for miles to the scene of the fire, which was generally expiring by the time it was reached. If the fire was not out, boys and men dragged down the coils of hose and the suction-pipe, which was run into a pond. Buckets were dipped, and water was poured down the cylinders to moisten the suckers, and ran through, because the leathers were all dried-up. Then the handles were seized and worked up and down, making a good deal of noise, but no water began to squirt, which did not matter (for the hose was all cracked, and would not have conveyed it); and at last everything was packed up again, and, the fire being out for want of more food, the engine was dragged back to its dwelling-place in the belfry, to go on growing older and more mildewy and useless.

It took a great many years to teach people that, but for the show of the thing, a great deal more good would have resulted if everybody had carried a tin mug of water and thrown it upon the fire. Still, they did learn this truth at last, and the result was that one day the old fire-engine was sold by auction in the marketplace of the nearest town and bought for a trifle by one of the hop-growers.

From that day the engine began to lead a new life, for it was cleaned up, newly leathered and suckered, and kept in a barn, from which it was dragged year after year to put out a plague as bad as fire.

Upon the morning in question there was a little procession from the oast-houses down to the gardens in the hollow, where, in a sheltered bower, a fire was lit under a huge copper, which had led the way; a great water-tub brought fluid from the muddy pond, and a kind of hot soup was made, bucketfuls of which were mixed with tubs of water; the suction-pipe of the engine was inserted in these, the hose and branch attached, and the slaughter of the insects began down between the rows of hop-poles, where the blackened, blight-covered hops cl.u.s.tered, twined, and hung.

_Fizz-fuzz_, _spitter-sputter_! Away flew the medicated water in a poisonous spray, and row after row of the blighted hops was relieved of the insect enemies, while the farmer's men kept the fire going, the water boiling, and the poison brewing to save the crop.

There was just enough room for the little engine to be dragged down between the hills--as they term them--of the hops without much crushing; but the labourers took good care to empty it first, and even then the wheels made deep ruts in the well-dug soil. After some hours' work the men had drawn it well into the middle of the garden; and while two pumped and another directed a fine spray under the leaves and among the tendrils, others plodded steadily along from the copper and tubs, each bearing a couple of buckets, and carefully picking a fresh way from time to time so as to avoid the shower of fine rain dripping from the verdant arches overhead.

"Hope n.o.body won't taste none o' this stuff in his yale, Joey," said one of the bucket-bearers, as he tossed the medicated water into the big tub from which the suction-pipe of the engine drew its supply, and as he spoke he widened the perennial grin which dwelt upon his puckered face.

"Do un good," growled Joey, who was directing the spray from the branch so as to spread it over as many leaves as possible. "Make un teetotal, Smiler."

"Ha, ha!" chuckled the man with the buckets; "deal o' teetotal about you, Joey. Make yale taste, though, won't it?"

"Na-a-a-ay! Rain'll wash it all off in no time, Smiler. There, fetch some more."

"All very fine, Joey; but its wa-arm down here. Wind don't come."

"Well, who wants wind to knock the poles down?--best lewed garden, this, on the fa-arm. Fatch some more!"

Smiler, as he was called, went off with his empty buckets, trudged back to the copper and water-barrel, justifying his name at every step; for he smiled at the clods of earth, the weeds which had sprung up, at the poles, and then at the horse in the shafts of the water-barrel cart, before refilling his buckets and starting back down a fresh row of hops, between which the sun came glinting and sending shafts of silver arrows to the rich soil, out of which peeped wool clippings, shoddy, greasy rags, and other indescribable rubbish used by the farmer to fertilise his field.

When abreast of the engine, hidden from him by three or four rows of poles, Smiler set down his pails with a clank, smiled round him, and wiped his wet brow with one bare arm, then the other side in the same way, the operation being so satisfactory that he continued it all over his face. Then, smiling more than ever, he stooped, picked up his buckets, went on a few yards to where there was an opening into the next row, turned himself edgewise, and pa.s.sed through with his buckets swung round, and was about to pa.s.s through into another green arcade, but stopped, smiling still, and put down his load once more with a louder rattle of the handles, while _clank clank_ went the engine and _whish whish_ and _sputter_ the cloud of spray among the leaves.

"Now then, Smiler, come on!" shouted one of the men with the engine, still hidden, but close at hand.

"Hi! Joey," shouted Smiler.

"What's the matter?--found a hop-dog?"

"Nay! Here's a tipsy swaddy lying dead asleep; shall I gi'e him a bucket o' hop-wash?"

"Gahn! Bring that stuff."

"But I tell ye he's tipsy, boy. Come, all on yer, and see!"

The clanking of the engine stopped at once, for it was very hot there, and the diversion was acceptable; so, leaving the fine rain dripping from the hop-bine, three men came, dragging their legs after them, threading their way through the poles till they all stood together, wiping their streaming faces with their bare arms, and gazing down at the rec.u.mbent figure, at which the bucket-bearer smiled, the others following his example, and ending in a hearty chuckle, in which Smiler joined.

"Shall I gi'e him a bucket, Joey?" he said again.

"Nay," said the man addressed. "n.o.body never give you a bucket, Smiler, when you lay down in a ditch."

The others laughed, and Smiler winced a little.

"Make him wet outside as well as in!"

"Yah! We don't want to spoil his red coat," said Joey; "he's got it pratty will syled without. Why, he must ha' been here all night! Here, soger, wake up!"

There was no movement.

"D'yer hear? Right about face! 'Tention!"

"Well, he must have had a good wet! How did un come here?"