"Bless the lad, he's fair tired te death!" said Mrs. Bolland. "Here, Martin, drink a gla.s.s o' port an' off te bed wi' ye."

He sipped the wine, wondering dimly what Frank Beckett-Smythe was enduring and how he would explain that black eye. He was about to go upstairs, when hasty steps sounded without, and Bolland entered with a policeman.

This was the village constable, and, of course, well known to all.

During the feast other policemen came from neighboring villages, but the local officer was best fitted to conduct inquiries into a case requiring measures beyond a mere arrest. His appearance at this late hour created a fresh sensation.

"Martin," said the farmer gravely, "did ye surely hear Kitty Thwaites say that Betsy had killed Mr. Pickering?"

"Yes, sir; I did."

"And ye heerd Betsy admit it?"

"Oh, yes--that is, if Betsy is the woman with the knife."

"There!" said Bolland, turning to the policeman. "I telt ye so. T' lad has his faults, but he's nae leear; I'll say that for him."

The man took off his helmet and wiped his forehead, for the night was close and warm.

"Well," he said, "I'll just leave it for the 'Super' te sattle. Mr.

Pickerin' sweers that Betsy never struck him. She ran up tiv him wi' t'

knife, an' they quarrelled desperately. That he don't deny. She threatened him, too, an' te get away frev her he was climin' inte t'

stackyard when he slipped, an' a fork lyin' again' t' fence ran intiv his ribs."

"Isn't he dead, then?" exclaimed Mrs. Bolland shrilly.

"Not he, ma'am, and not likely te be. He kem to as soon as he swallowed some brandy, an' his first words was, 'Where's Betsy?' He was fair wild when they telt him she was arrested. He said it was all the fault of that flighty la.s.s, Kitty, an' that a lot of fuss was bein' made about nowt. I didn't know what te de. Beth women were fair ravin', and said all soarts o' things, but t' upshot is that Betsy is nussin' Mr.

Pickerin' now until t' doctor comes frae Nottonby."

He still mopped his head, and his glance wandered to the goodly cask in the corner.

"Will ye hev a pint?" inquired Bolland.

"Ay, that I will, Mr. Bolland, an' welcome."

"An' a bite o' bread an' meat?" added Mrs. Bolland.

"I doan't min' if I do, ma'am."

A glance at a maid produced eatables with lightning speed. Mary feared lest she should miss a syllable of the night's marvels.

The policeman had many "bites," and talked while he ate. Gradually the story became lucid and consecutive.

Fred, the groom, was jealous of Pickering's admiration for Kitty. Having overheard the arrangement for a meeting on Monday, he wrote to Betsy, sending her the information in the hope that she would come from Hereford and cause a commotion at the hotel.

He expected her by an earlier train, but she did not arrive until 9:20 P.M., and there was a walk of over two miles from the station.

Meanwhile, he had seen Kitty and Pickering steal off into the garden. He knew that any interference on his part would earn him a prompt beating, so, when Betsy put in a belated appearance, he met her in the pa.s.sage and told her where she would find the couple.

Instantly she ran through the kitchen, s.n.a.t.c.hing a knife as she went.

Before the drink-sodden meddler could realize the extent of the mischief he had wrought, Kitty was shrieking that Pickering was dead. All this he blurted out to the police before the injured man gave another version of the affair.

"Martin bears out one side o' t' thing," commented the constable oracularly, "but t' chief witness says that summat else happened. There was blood on t' knife when it was picked up; but there, again, there's a doubt, as Betsy had cut her own arm wi't. Anyhow, Betsy an' Kitty were cryin' their hearts out when they kem out of Mr. Pickerin's room for towels; and he's bleedin' dreadful."

This final gory touch provided an artistic curtain. The constable readjusted his belt and took his departure.

After another half-hour's eager gossip among the elders, in which Fred suffered much damage to his character, Martin was hurried off to bed.

Mrs. Bolland washed his bruised face and helped him to undress. She was folding his trousers, when a shower of money rattled to the floor.

"Marcy on us!" she cried in real bewilderment, "here's a sovereign, a half-sovereign, an' silver, an' copper! Martin, my boy, whatever...."

"Angle gave it to me, mother. She gave me two pounds ten to spend."

"Two pund ten!"

"Yes. I suppose it was very wrong. I'll give back all that is left to Mrs. Saumarez in the morning."

Martha Bolland was very serious now. She crept to the door of the bedroom and listened.

"I do hope yer father kens nowt o' this," she whispered anxiously.

Then she counted the money.

"You've spent sixteen shillin's and fowerpence, not reckonin' t'

shillin' I gev ye this mornin'. Seventeen an' fowerpence! Martin, Martin, whatever on?"

Such extravagance was appalling. Her frugal mind could not a.s.similate it readily. This sum would maintain a large family for a week.

"We stood treat to a lot of other boys and girls. But don't be vexed to-night, mother, dear. I'm so tired."

"Vexed, indeed. What'll Mrs. Saumarez say? There'll be a bonny row i' t'

mornin'. You tak' it back t' first thing. An', here. If she sez owt about t' balance, come an' tell me an' I'll make it up. You fond lad; if John knew this, he'd never forgive ye. There, honey, go te sleep."

There were tears in her eyes as she bent and kissed him. But he was incapable of further emotion. He was half asleep ere she descended the stairs, and his last sentient thought was one of keen enjoyment, for his knuckles were sore when he closed his right hand, and he remembered the smashing force of that uppercut as it met the aristocratic nose of Master Beckett-Smythe.

CHAPTER VII

GEORGE PICKERING PLAYS THE MAN

Martin was awakened by the rays of a bright autumn sun. He sprang out of bed in a jiffy, lest he should be late for breakfast, a heinous offense at the farm; but the sight of William feeding the pigs in the yard beneath told him that it was only half-past six.

The first puzzle that presented itself was one of costume. Should he wear his commonplace corduroys, or don all that was left of his gray tweeds? During the Feast he was supposed to dress in his best each day; he decided to obey orders as far as was possible.

He missed the money from his trousers pocket and knew that his mother had taken it. Also, he found that she had selected a clean shirt and collar from the drawer and placed them ready for use. By degrees his active brain recalled the startling events of the previous evening in their proper sequence, and he found himself speculating more on the reception Mrs. Saumarez might accord than on the att.i.tude John Bolland would certainly adopt when the overnight proceedings arranged themselves in a slow-moving mind.