WHICH INTRODUCES A FRIEZE COAT AND ITS WEARER, ONE GEORGE POTTER
“Old gammer du ha’ found ’ersen a man at last!” cried a voice.
“Ah, the danged owd witch du ha’ ’witched hersel’ a sweet’eart fur sure!”
roared another.
“An’ sech a nice-lookin’ young man an’ arl!” quoth a matron with a fat
baby in her arms, whom Sir John saluted with a bow, whereupon she hid
blushing face behind her plump baby.
But as they progressed the crowd grew and, with increasing number, their
attitude waxed more threatening; laughter changed to angry mutterings,
clods and stones began to fly.
“I waarned ’ee ’ow ’twould be!” quoth old Penelope bitterly. “You’d
best leave me an’ run, young man, quick—up the twitten yonder!” Even as
she spoke, Sir John was staggered by a well-aimed clod and his hat spun
from his head. Setting down the basket, he turned and stood fronting the
crowd frowning a little, chin uptilted, serene of eye. Foremost among
their assailants was a burly young fellow, chiefly remarkable for a very
wide mouth and narrow-set eyes, towards whom Sir John pointed with his
holly-stick.
“Pray, Mistress Haryott,” he inquired in his clear, ringing tones, “who
is yonder ill-conditioned wight?”
“That?” cried old Penelope in fierce scorn. “It be Tom Simpson, a Lon’on
lad ... one o’ th’ Excise as creeps an’ crawls an’ spies on better men——”
“Oh, do I, then!” snarled the burly young man. “I’ll knock your dummed
eye out for that, I will!” And he reached for a stone, but checked
suddenly as Sir John strode towards him carrying the holly-stick much as
if it had been a small-sword.
“Talking of eyes,” quoth Sir John, with a graceful flourish of the stick,
“drop that stone, lest I feel it necessary to blind you!” and he made an
airy pass at the face of the young man, who leapt back so precipitately
that he stumbled and fell, whereupon the crowd, roaring with laughter at
his discomfiture, pressed nearer, eager for diversion.
“Doan’t let ’un bloind ’ee, lad!” cried one.
“’E bean’t so big as ’ee, Tom! Tak’ a ’edge-stake tu un!”
“Noa, tak’ my ol’ bat; it du be a good ’eavy ’un, Tom!” cried a second.
The burly young man, finding himself thus the centre of observation,
snatched the proffered stick, squared his shoulders and approached Sir
John in very ferocious and determined manner, but halted, just out of
reach, to spit upon his palm and take fresh hold upon his bludgeon;
whereupon the crowd encouraged him on this wise:
“Knock ’is little wig off, Tom!”
“Poke ’is eye out, lad!”
“Aim at ’is nob!”
“Go fur ’is legs!”
Suddenly the burly young man sprang, aiming a terrific blow, but, instead
of attempting a parry, Sir John leapt nimbly aside, and the young man,
impelled by the force of his stroke, once more stumbled and fell; and
then before he could rise, old Penelope commenced to belabour him with
her long staff as he lay, panting out maledictions with every blow until
the crowd, laughing, shouting, cursing, surged forward to the rescue.
Drawing the fierce and breathless old creature behind him, Sir John,
seeing escape impossible, faced the oncoming menace strung and quivering
for desperate action, while the crowd lashed itself to fury by such cries
as:
“Down wi’ the young cock!”
“Scrag the owd witch, lads: to the watter wi’ ’er!”
“Aye, to the river with ’em—both of ’em!” cried Mr. Sturton, loudest of
all.
And then forth from one of those narrow lanes, or rather passages that
are known as “twittens,” sauntered a man in a short, frieze coat, vast
of pocket and button, a wide-shouldered, comely man whose face, framed
between neatly trimmed whiskers, wore an air of guileless good-nature.
Guilelessness indeed! It was in his eyes despite their lurking twinkle,
in the uptrend of his firm lips, the tilt of his nose, his close-cropped
whiskers and square chin. Guilelessness beamed in the brass buttons
of his short-skirted frieze coat, it was in the very creases of his
garments, it seemed to enfold him from boots and gaiters to the crown of
his weather-worn hat, it was in the tones of his soft yet resonant voice
when he spoke:
“Lor’ love Potter, Mr. Sturton, sir, but ’oo’s been an’ give ye that
theer tur’ble eye? Arl black it be, sir, leastways where it bean’t
black ’tis green. An’ swole, sir! Lor’ love George Potter’s limbs, it
du be a-swellin’ an’ a-puffin’ of itself up that proud, sir! ’Tis most
alarmin’, Mr. Sturton! Shame on ye, neighbours; can’t none on ye du
nothin’ fur poor Mr. Sturton’s ogle—look at ’ee——” But, uttering a fierce
imprecation, Mr. Sturton turned his back, pushed his way angrily into the
inn, and slammed the door behind him.
“I never seen a blacker eye, never——”
“Don’t go fur to blame we, Jarge Potter!” quoth a greybeard. “’Tidn’t
none o’ our doin’—no!”
“Then what be the trouble, neighbours? What’s to du, good folk?” inquired
Mr. Potter.
“It ain’t none o’ your business anyway!” retorted the burly young man
sullenly. “We be honest folks, which be more than some can say with y’r
poachin’, ah, an’ smugglin’!”
“Hold thy tongue, lad!” cried the greybeard, plucking the burly young
man’s arm. “Don’t ’ee see as Jarge be wearin’ ’is ol’ frieze coat?”
“What do I care for ’is old coat!”
“That’s because ye be fullish an’ strange ’ereabouts an’ doan’t know
Jarge.”
“Neighbours,” said Mr. Potter in his deep, leisured tones, his placid
gaze roving from face to face, “you arl do know as Potter be a peaceable
man, so here’s Potter a-beggin’ an’ a-pleadin’ o’ ye to leave old Pen
alone—or I’m afeard some on ye might get ’urted—bad, I reckon!” As he
spoke, Mr. Potter’s powerful hands disappeared into the deep pockets
of his frieze coat, and he took a leisurely pace forward. “Simpson, my
lad,” quoth he, nodding kindly at the burly young man, “your mouth’s so
oncommon large as you’ll swaller yourself, boots an’ arl, one of these
days if ye open it s’wide! So run along, my lad! ’Ome be the word,
neighbours; off wi’ ye now—arl on ye. I bean’t a-goin’ t’ plead twice wi’
no one.”
Mr. Potter’s brow was smooth, guilelessness seemed to radiate and beam
from his person, but, seeing how the crowd forthwith scattered and melted
away, the burly young man betook himself off likewise, muttering darkly.
Then Mr. Potter turned in his unhurried fashion to look at Sir John, and
the smile that lurked in the corners of his mouth slowly broadened.
“Young sir,” said he, touching his hat, “who you be or what, bean’t no
consarn o’ mine nohow, but, sir, you stood up for a old ’ooman as aren’t
got many to tak’ ’er part, d’ye see, an’ so ’ere’s Potter a-thankin’ of
you—an’ that is my business, I rackon.”
“Indeed, Mr. Potter, ’twould seem I have to thank you also, you—or your
coat——”
“Coat?” repeated Mr. Potter, glancing down at the garment in question as
if mildly surprised to behold it. “Aye, to be sure—’tis a old jacket as I
use in my trade, d’ye see——”
“A free-trade, I think?” added Sir John.
“Lor’ love ’ee, sir,” sighed Mr. Potter, opening his guileless eyes a
trifle wider, “doan’t ’ee tak’ no ’eed o’ what that theer young Simpson
says——”
“Mr. Potter,” quoth Sir John, smiling, “a week ago I was shaking hands
with Captain Sharkie Nye aboard the _True Believer_, and I should like to
shake yours.”
“What, be you the young gen’leman as crossed wi’ Sir Hector?”
“That same. And my name is Derwent.”
“Why, Mr. Derwent, sir, that du alter the case, I rackon. So theer
be Potter’s ’and, sir, and heartily! Ah, an’ yonder be old Penelope
a-beckonin’ ... her will curse we shameful if us du keep her waitin’ ...
so come ’long, sir.”
“Aye, come y’r ways, du—both on ye!” cried the old creature imperiously.
“’Tidn’t often I ’as comp’ny, so I’ll brew ye a dish o’ tay——”
“Tea?” exclaimed Sir John.
“Aye, all the way from Chaney, young man! Tay as costes forty shillin’
a pound an’ more up to Lunnon—tak’ care o’ my old trug! This way—down
twitten!”
She led them down a narrow way between the walls of cottages and gardens,
and at last to a very small cottage indeed, a forlorn little structure,
its garden trampled, its broken window-panes stuffed with old rags to
exclude the elements, itself all dilapidation from rotting thatch to
crumbling doorstep.
“And is this your home?” cried Sir John, very much aghast.
“It be, young man. They bruk’ all my lattices months agone, an’ Mr.
Sturton won’t put in no more. The chimbley smokes an’ the thatch leaks
an’ I gets the ager bad, but it be my home an’ I love every brick. For
’twas here I were born, here I loved and lost, here I hoped to die,
but Maaster Sturton be fur turning o’ me out next month ... bean’t ’e,
Jarge?”
“’E be,” answered Mr. Potter softly, “dang ’im!”
“Come in, young man, an’ you tu, Jarge—come in; it du be better-lookin’
inside than out.” And indeed, once the door was shut—a particularly stout
and ponderous door, Sir John noticed—the small, heavily beamed chamber
was cosy and homelike, very orderly and clean, from the polished copper
kettle on the hob to the china ornaments upon the mantel.
And now Mr. Potter reached a hand within the mysteries of the frieze coat
and drew thence a couple of plump rabbits.
“Found ’em s’marnin’, Pen,” he nodded. “An’ here,” he continued, groping
deeper within vast pocket, “’ere be a—no, that be wire ... ’ere—no, that
be ’baccy for ’Osea ... ah, ’ere be a lump o’ pork t’ go wi’ ’em, Pen.”
“Thank’ee kindly, Jarge! An’ would ’ee moind a-skinnin’ of ’em whiles I
tidies myself up a bit?”
“Heartily, Pen.”
“An’ you, young man, poke up the fire an’ put on the kittle t’ bile ...
there be a pump in the yard.”
Having performed these duties, Sir John, seating himself on a bucket
beside the pump, watched Mr. Potter deftly operate upon the rabbits, and
there ensued the following conversation:
MR. POTTER: Stayin’ ’ereabouts, sir?
SIR JOHN: At the ‘Dering Arms.’
MR. POTTER: Stayin’ long, sir?
SIR JOHN: I hope so.
MR. POTTER: Why, so du I ... seein’ as you be known to Sharkie
an’ Sir ’Ector. And, besides, old Pen du ha’ took to ye fair
amazin’ ... an’ she’s an eye like a nawk ’as old Pen, aye,
sharp as a gimblet it be. An’ she’s took to ye, d’ye see, sir.
SIR JOHN: I feel truly and deeply honoured.
MR. POTTER: Well, you stood up for ’er s’arternoon agin them
fules as meant mischief.
SIR JOHN: She seems to have suffered more than her share.
MR. POTTER: Suffered? Sir, Potter be a peaceable man an’
bloodshed contrariwise to ’is natur’ ... no matter what you
’appen to hear ... but there be some folk as I’d tak’ a deal o’
j’y to skin, d’ye see, like this ’ere! (Mr. Potter held up a
newly skinned and pinkly nude rabbit.)
SIR JOHN: Whom do you mean?
MR. POTTER: Ah! ’oo indeed, sir? Potter knows, but Potter’s mum!
SIR JOHN: And yet I think I could guess, if I tried.
MR. POTTER: Why, ye may guess, sir—this be a free
country—leastways, fules say so.
SIR JOHN: One, I think, must be Mr. James Sturton. Am I right?
MR. POTTER: Why, as to that, sir, I answers plain and to the
point as there be nobody nowhere breathin’ as can get s’much
flavour into a jugged ’are ekal to old Pen—except Peter Bunkle
as keeps the ‘Cross’ over tu Alfriston.
SIR JOHN: And the second is Lord Sayle. Am I wrong?
MR. POTTER: Why, as to that, sir, Potter don’t say nothing. Du
’ee know Lord Sayle?
SIR JOHN: I have met him.
MR. POTTER: Friend o’ yourn, sir?
SIR JOHN: So much so that I have determined to drive him out of
the country, or kill him.
(Here Mr. Potter dropped the rabbit.)
MR. POTTER: Well ... love my limbs! Kill—hist! But ... but you,
sir? Axing your pardon, but you aren’t got the look of a killer.
SIR JOHN: Thank you, Mr. Potter, I rejoice to hear it.
MR. POTTER: But—ki—hist! He be pretty big and pretty fierce,
sir, an’ you, axing y’r pardon, ain’t exactly——
SIR JOHN: An elephant or a tiger—and yet I feel myself
perfectly able to accomplish one or the other, Mr. Potter.
MR. POTTER: Well, love my eyes! He be a fightin’ man too, sir!
Somebody stuck a sword into him lately, I hear, but it didn’t
do no good; he be as well and ’earty as ever. Now if—hist!
(Here Mr. Potter paused, finger on lip, to glance stealthily
around.)
SIR JOHN: If what, Mr. Potter?
MR. POTTER: (Drawing near and speaking in hushed voice) If you
be ... set on a-doin’ of it ... very determined on ... the
deed, sir, your best way is to—hist! A pistol ... no, a musket
... some good dark night. Hist—Potter’s mum!
SIR JOHN: You don’t love him, I think?
MR. POTTER: Love him? Well, there be things ’as ’appened
’ereabouts as no one can’t swear agin nobody, d’ye see, an’
yet ... old Pen knows more than she dare speak, I rackon, an’
Potter ain’t blind nor yet deaf.
SIR JOHN: What kind of things?
MR. POTTER: Well, theer was poor Dick Hobden as went a-walkin’
one evenin’ Windover way wi’ Lucy Price, a rare handsome lass.
Poor Dick were found stone dead next day, but the lass vanished
an’ nobody never seen her no more, nor never will, I reckon.
SIR JOHN: Vanished?
MR. POTTER: Ay, like Mary Beal as disappeared and came back
and drownded of ’erself, pore lass. There was Ruth Wicks as
likewise vanished an’ was found weeks arterwards singin’ in the
dark atop o’ Windover ... died mad, she did. There was other
lasses as disappeared from Wilmington an’ Litlin’ton an’ never
come back.
SIR JOHN: A hateful tale!
MR. POTTER: It be, sir.
SIR JOHN: And whom do you suspect?
MR. POTTER: Mum for that, sir! But there be folk as Potter
would be j’yful to ’ave the skinnin’ of——
SIR JOHN: You mean my Lord Sayle and Sturton——
MR. POTTER: Hist—sir! Speak soft! I don’t mean nothin’. Only
what one bids t’other obeys.... And now Lord Sayle swears he’ll
ruin all on us—every man an’ bye, ah, wumman, maid an’ babe,
not forgettin’ wives an’ widders.
SIR JOHN: How so?
MR. POTTER: He’s took an oath to put down “the trade,” d’ye
see. Potter be a inoffensive creater’ as never drawed steel in
his life—except mebbe now and then—I prefers a short bat ...
and never fired a shot in all my days—except p’r’aps once or
twice an’ then only when com-pelled.... Ah, a peaceable man be
Potter, but....
Here Mr. Potter laid finger to lip and looked slantwise at Sir John
beneath lifted eyebrow. And then old Penelope called them; and, glancing
round, Sir John was amazed to behold her clad in a sumptuous gown whose
voluminous silken folds lent her a strangely arresting dignity, while
upon her snowy hair was a mob cap marvellously belaced.
“Aye, it be real silk, young man!” quoth she, with a little shake in her
voice. “List to it rustle!” And sighing ecstatically, she spread out the
rich folds with her gnarled old fingers. “There bean’t a grander dress
nowhere.... Jarge give it me las’ Christmas. ’Tidn’t often I wears it, no
... but when I die, I’ll be buried in it—won’t I, Jarge?”
“Aye, aye, Pen!” nodded Mr. Potter. “But, Lord—’oo’s a-talkin’ o’ dyin’!
Be the kittle abilin’?”
“Aye, lad, tea’s ready. As for you, young man, if you’ll drink wi’ me as
they name witch, an’ bean’t fruttened lest I blast ’ee wi’ a look o’ my
eye—come your ways to tea.”
Following her into the cottage, Sir John beheld yet other unexpected
wonders, as the handleless cups of exquisite ware, the beautiful Chinese
teapot, the tray of priceless Chinese lacquer.
“Aha, you may stare, young man!” nodded old Penelope. “There bean’t a
lady in arl the land can show ’ee sech chaney as mine.... Jarge give it
tu me!”
“Why, ye see, sir,” added Mr. Potter apologetically, “I bean’t married!”
“An’ look at the lace in my cap, young man ... real French point—arl from
Jarge.”
“Why, ye see, sir,” quoth Mr. Potter again, “I aren’t got no sweet’eart!”
And thus Sir John Dering, sitting between old Penelope Haryott the witch,
and Mr. George Potter the guileless, drank smuggled tea out of smuggled
china, talked and listened, asked questions and answered them, and
enjoyed it all uncommonly well.