HOW GEORGE POTTER CIRCUMVENTED THE PREVENTIVES
Since that dim, far-distant day when pious hands first raised Alfriston
Cross, it has endured much by stress of weather and the passing of so
very many years. In its shadow may have stood Godwyn the great Jarl,
and his feoffman Aelfric; about it lusty Saxon ceorls bartered and
trafficked; past it may have reeled some of the bloody wrack of Harold’s
army, desperate men weary from the fatal strife at Senlac. Here has it
stood through the centuries, lashed by rain and wind, or drowsing in the
sun, while England waxed great and powerful. And as it doubtless was
once the place where Aelfric’s ceorls and villeins bartered and chatted,
so has it been a familiar spot for lounging confabulation ever since,
and has propped the backs of “all sorts and conditions of men” through
countless generations.
And of all this untold host surely never was there a back so suggestive
of conscious innocence, of gently-assertive rectitude and of guileful
guilelessness as the broad back of Mr. George Potter as he leaned there
this summer’s eve in murmurous, monosyllabic converse with Master Tom
Pursglove, the Tanner.
“Couldn’t nowise be no better, Jarge!” remarked Mr. Pursglove.
“Nohow!” responded Mr. Potter, his limpid gaze upon a gathering bank of
clouds to windward.
“Black daark ’twill be, Jarge, an’ a risin’ wind t’ kiver the tramp o’
the ponies ’ooves.”
“Aye!”
“Yonder comes Godby at last, an’ along wi’ Joe Muddle, Jarge.”
“I sees ’em.”
“They’ll ’ave been round givin’ ‘the word,’ I reckon?”
“They ’ave, Tom.”
Here Messrs. Godby and Muddle sauntered up and presently there were four
stalwart backs against the old cross.
“What be the tale, lads?” inquired Mr. Potter.
“Fourteen, Jarge!” quoth Mr. Godby, cutting a quid of tobacco.
“’Leven!” said Mr. Muddle, tapping a large, horn snuff-box.
“Which du mak’ thirty-seven on us, all told,” added Mr. Pursglove,
snuffing with Mr. Muddle.
“Ah!” nodded Mr. Potter; and so fell a ruminative silence.
“Fine night, Jarge, ’twill be?” opined Mr. Muddle at last.
“Sh’uldn’t wonder, Joe,” admitted Mr. Potter.
“But I do ’ear as the coastguard be doubled!” quoth Mr. Godby.
“True, John,” nodded Mr. Potter. “They be! Likewise the bozzlers be out!”
“An’ Will Comfort tol’ me as ’e seen sojers, a-marching out o’
Brighthelmstone ’s marnin’, Jarge,” said Mr. Muddle.
“Let ’em march!” murmured Mr. Potter.
“Ah,” quoth Mr. Pursglove, “Jarge’ll sarcumwent ’em some’ow, same as ’e
done afore ... ’twas tubs ’arf-full o’ watter, buoyed very keerful off
Burling Gap, las’ time ... coastguard a-haulin’ of ’em in, tur’ble busy,
an’ us a-runnin’ the stuff at Cuckmere! Sarcumwentin’s the word. What
d’you say, Jarge?”
“’Ogs,” quoth Mr. Potter in somewhat louder tone, his mild gaze
still uplift heavenward, “’ogs, Tom, takes as much knowin’ as an
’ooman—’specially sows! There was Peter Bunkie’s gurt sow, you’ll mind,
as never littered less’n eleven, suddenly took it into ’er ’ead to
starve—wouldn’t eat naun. Peter, ’e done arl as ever man could for ’er,
but ’tweren’t no manner o’ good. Me an’ Peter ’ticed an’ cogged ’er
wi’ arl kinds o’ fother from rum-an’-milk, loo’-warm, to some stuff in
a bottle as Peter ’ad from the ’poth’cary the time ’is leg was s’bad,
but she’d ’ave naun, not she—turned up ’er nose, ’er did, an’ being
just as contrairy as any ’ooman, closed ’er eyes an’ went an’ died.
The neighbours arl guv’ it their ’pinion as she was took off by a
information, but I b’liv’ as she was a-grizzlin’ over summat as nobody
knowed nothin’ about ’cept ’er own self, d’ye see? Good evenin’, Mus’
Sturton, sir; ’ere be Potter a-tellin’ ’bout Peter Bunkie’s sow an’ ’ere
be you—a-bobbin’ up that onexpected-like——”
“Look ye here, George Potter,” cried Mr. Sturton in his peremptory
fashion, big chin out-thrust; “look now, and mark me——”
“Potter be a-lookin’, sir! An’—talkin’ o’ marks, ’ow’s your pore eye now,
Mr. Sturton, sir?”
It was during Mr. Sturton’s rejoinder, a long and eloquent denunciation
of Mr. Potter, ending with a comprehensive condemnation of his eyes,
limbs, lights, body and soul, that Sir John rode into the village, the
gloomy Robert at his heels, and unnoticed by any one, pulled up in the
shade of a tree whose widespreading branches afforded a pleasing and
kindly shade.
“Lord, Mus’ Sturton, sir,” quoth Mr. Potter, “’eavens know as I doan’t
begridge nobody nothing, but I’d gi’e summat for your gift o’ speech ...
so easy-like ... sech curses! So ’eart-felt——”
“I’ll see ye hung or transported yet for the rogue y’are, George Potter!”
“I ’opes not, sir——”
“Hold y’r tongue!”
“Don’t be ’arsh, Mr. Sturton, sir——”
“We know ye for a poachin’, smugglin’ rascal——”
“Poachin’? Smugglin’?... Wot—me?” quoth Mr. Potter in tones of pained
surprise. “Mus’ Sturton, if ever you catches Potter a-doin’ one or
t’other, I ’opes as you’ll mak’ an’ example of ’im.”
“That’s what we’re here for—look behind ye!” cried Mr. Sturton
triumphantly. “Are ye there, Oxham?”
“All ready, Sturton!” boomed a jovial voice, and out from an adjacent
twitten stepped five brawny fellows headed by a large, loud man who
bore himself with a jaunty truculence and wore his three-cornered hat
cocked at a defiant angle. At sight of whom, Sir John frowned slightly:
beholding which portent the corporal’s gloom was lifted from him, and,
freeing his feet from the stirrups, he prepared for action sudden and
swift.
“Why, good-evening, Mus’ Oxham!” said Mr. Potter serenely. “An’ ’ow might
Lord Sayle be a-gettin’ along wi’ his wounded arm?”
Mr. Oxham slapped coat-skirts with his riding-whip and smiled
unpleasantly.
“Well an’ hearty enough to attend to you, I reckon,” he answered. “So are
ye a-coming along with us quiet or no?”
“But—wheer to, sir?”
“To my Lord Sayle, for sure!”
“On what account, sir?”
“Poaching,” cried Mr. Sturton. “Poaching in the first place, and
smuggling in the second, and for being an insolent, shiftless, masterless
rogue in the third——”
“And in the fourth place,” smiled Mr. Oxham, seeming bigger and louder
than ever, “because my lord wants ye! An’ that’s enough, I reckon!”
“Aye,” nodded Mr. Potter, “an’ where be your warrant, sir?”
“Never you trouble for that, Potter! My lord wants ye. Are ye comin’
quiet or no?”
“But this bean’t no kind o’ justice, sirs——”
“Never you trouble about justice, Potter. You can talk o’ that to his
lordship. Now, are ye comin’ quiet or no?”
“Quiet!” answered Mr. Potter; “but you’ll be s’kind as to allow me a
drink o’ ale first?”
“Not by no manner o’ means!” smiled Mr. Oxham, planting himself before
his captive. “You are comin’ along with us, and you’re a-comin’—now!”
“I think not!” said a somewhat high, resonant voice, and, riding from
behind the tree, Sir John reined in his horse and sat looking at the
group, his chin tilted imperiously, his eyes quick and keen.
“And who,” demanded the large Mr. Oxham, smiling and slapping coat-skirts
again—“who the devil are you?”
“Nobody, Oxham,” answered Mr. Sturton. “A no-account youngster as I’ve
turned out o’ ‘The Dering Arms’ ... knocked him into the dik’, I did,
last time we met——”
“And my name is Derwent!” added Sir John. “And I will not suffer you to
drag this man away—now or at any other time.”
Mr. Oxham boomed derisive laughter and flourished his whip for the
benefit of the gathering crowd that pressed ever nearer.
“Oh ... you won’t, hey?” he demanded.
“No,” answered Sir John. “And—look’ee, fellow, next time you desire to
laugh, turn away—your gaping mouth offends me!”
“Why—why, damme!” stammered Mr. Oxham, staring. “Offend you, is it? Ecod,
I’ll do more than offend ye if ye doan’t tak’ yourself off, and sharp’s
the word!”
“Aha!” exclaimed Sir John. “The vulgar rogue actually dares to threaten!”
“Do ye tak’ yourself out o’ my way or doan’t ye?” shouted Mr. Oxham,
brandishing his whip.
“I do not!” answered Sir John, and with a motion of slender hands, lifted
the flaps of his holsters, discovering the butts of two serviceable
pistols at his saddle.
“Ho—murder, is it?” exclaimed Mr. Oxham, falling back a step.
“Bob, should it be necessary, you will leave the shooting to me.”
“I prefer my riding-crop, sir!” answered the Corporal happily.
“And now,” continued Sir John, his eyes very quick and watchful, “Mr.
Oxham, Mr. Sturton and gentlemen all, listen to me! I will not permit Mr.
Potter to be apprehended in this outrageous fashion for the following
cogent and excellent reasons, namely: first, because ’tis against the
law; second, because I myself share Mr. Potter’s very natural aversion
to my Lord Sayle’s company; and, thirdly, because I regard Mr. Potter in
the light of a friend and, as a Man o’ Sentiment, I feel the bonds of
friendship very sacred.... How say ye, gentlemen?”
“You’m right, sir! Right you be!” cried a voice.
“Indeed, we are all with you!” added a second voice, and Mr. Pym, the
painter, appeared, hatless and with a long-hafted prawning-net in his
hand. “The man Sayle has tyrannised hereabouts too long!”
“Aye, that ’e ’ave! That ’e ’ave!” cried others, and the crowd surged
nearer with an angry muttering, insomuch that Mr. Oxham flourished his
whip and scowled, while his satellites, for all their brawn, began to
grow uneasy.
“At him, Oxham!” cried Mr. Sturton. “Pull him from his horse; he won’t
dare to shoot!”
“Try!” quoth Sir John.
“Aye, come on, if ye will!” added Mr. Pym, brandishing his heavy-hafted
net.
Here was a moment’s silence, and then Mr. Potter spoke:
“Thank ye heartily, friends an’ neighbours—and you most of arl, Mus’
Derwent, sir, but it bean’t no manner o’ good a-muckin’ yourself up
arl-along-on-account-of poor Potter’s affairs, not nohow. There bean’t
no man can’t nowise help poor Potter except Potter himself, I rackon,
and, sir—Potter be agoin’ to try!”
As he uttered the last word Mr. Potter leapt, brawny fist a-swing with
behind it all the weight, strength and impetus of powerful body; and,
felled by that resistless blow, the large Mr. Oxham, for all his size,
rolled helpless upon the roadway, while over his prostrate form leapt the
fugitive and disappeared through the open doorway of ‘The Market Cross
Inn,’ but with Sturton and divers others of Oxham’s men close upon his
heels.
Next instant Sir John had plucked forth his pistols, dismounted and,
entering the inn, beheld Sturton and his fellows staring around them and
upon each other in speechless, wondering dismay, for save for themselves
the place was empty; Mr. Potter, it seemed, had vanished into thin air.
It was a proportionate, fair-sized room with sanded floor, beamed ceiling
and a wide hearth, where burned a cheery fire screened by a huge,
high-backed settle.
“Muster Sturton, sir,” quoth one man, glancing uneasily about, “I don’t
like this, blind me if I do.... A man as wanishes afore a man’s werry
eyes ain’t nat’ral, an’ I don’t loike it.”
“No more don’t I,” added a second. “One moment theer ’e was, plain to
see, the next ’e ducks be’ind the settle yonder—you seen ’im duck,
Sir—an’ then ... well ... ’e ain’t!”
“Hold y’r tongues!” boomed Mr. Oxham, striding forward at this juncture,
cherishing bruised face with one hand, whip brandished in the other.
“You, Sturton, where is he? What’s come o’ the rogue?”
“Aye—what?” answered Sturton, his gaze wandering. “I was close on him
when he slipped behind this here settle, and then—well, he ain’t here
now, Oxham! And I swear he never reached door!”
“But, damme,” roared Mr. Oxham, fetching the settle a resounding blow
with his whip, “he must be ’ereabouts somewhere, man!”
“Aye, but—where?”
“Skulking in some hole or corner——”
“Why, then—find him, Oxham!”
Hereupon Mr. Oxham roared for Peter Bunkle, the landlord; and after
some while Mr. Bunkle condescended to become visible, a shortish,
broad-shouldered man whose sturdy middle was swathed in snowy apron and
whose eyes were round and wide with innocent inquiry; to whom Mr. Oxham,
with much whip-flourishing, set forth the tale of Mr. Potter’s so sudden
disappearance, demanding instant elucidation thereof under pain of dire
penalties to all and sundry.
“What, Jarge Potter vanished again, says you?” inquired Mr. Bunkle,
faintly interested. “Well, wot o’ that—Lord, is this arl? Why, folks be
allus a-disappearin’ ’ereabouts—specially Jarge Potter; it do be gettin’
quite an’ ’abit wi’ him. But, bless ye, doan’t ye go a-worryin’—Jarge’ll
come back safe an’ sound, ’e allus do—if ye wait long enough.”
“Now you, Bunkle, look’ee here!” boomed Mr. Oxham, whip a-flourish. “We
know as there’s a cargo to be run to-night somewheres——”
“Cargo?” repeated Mr. Bunkle, vastly astonished. “Oh? What of? Run where?”
“You know that well enough, Bunkle, but no matter! We want Potter. Lord
Sayle knows ’e be one o’ the ringleaders, and he’s sent us to tak’ him,
and tak’ him we will.”
“Well, then, tak’ him,” nodded Mr. Bunkie, “an’ I’ll get back to my
cookin’—as fine a jugged-’are——”
“Where is he? Speak up!”
“Who?”
“Why, Potter, damme!”
“Lord, bean’t ye a-tellin’ me as he be vanished, an’ if he be vanished, I
suppose vanished ’e be——”
“Where to, dang ye—where?”
“’Ow should I know?” sighed Mr. Bunkle. “An’ that theer jugged-’are nigh
ready to be dished—’ow should any one know? Arl as I do know is as theer
be strange ’appenings ’ereabouts, aye, that there be; country’s full
o’ arl manner o’ unnat’ralness—visions, spekiters—Mus’ Sturton seen a
phanitum only t’other night; didn’t ye, Mus’ Sturton?”
“Who says so—lies!” cried Mr. Sturton fiercely. “And, Oxham, if ye hope
to find Potter you’d best search now ’stead o’ wasting any more time.”
“Aye, search be the word!” nodded Mr. Bunkle. “I can show ye arl manner
o’ likely places to search in——”
“I’ll find the curst rogue if we ha’ to pull the danged place about your
ears——”
“Why, very good!” answered Mr. Bunkle, rubbing his hands. “Only arl
breakages must be paid for——”
“Paid for?” roared Mr. Oxham, louder than ever. “Gimme any more o’ your
imperence an’ I’ll pay ye wi’ my whip!”
“I shouldn’t!” answered Mr. Bunkle. “No, I shouldn’t if I was you, Oxham.”
For answer Mr. Oxham raised his whip, only to have it twitched out of
his grasp from behind, and, wheeling about, came face to face with the
imperturbable Robert.
“You ... you ...” he panted. “Gimme that whip!”
“With j’y!” answered the ex-Corporal, stepping back for space to strike.
“I suggest the fire, Robert!” murmured Sir John from where he lolled upon
the settle; and next moment Mr. Oxham’s whip was among the flames, and
before its stupefied owner could find words, Sir John continued:
“And now, Mr. Oxham, you may depart and do your expected bellowing
elsewhere. I find you altogether offensive!... D’ye hear me, fellow—go!”
Mr. Oxham’s large face grew inflamed and seemed to swell larger, and
he glared from the indolent figure on the settle to his five uneasy
stalwarts; but hard by, the corporal and Mr. Bunkle stood poised for
action offensive; in the doorway, Mr. Pym leaned upon his prawning-net,
and behind him loomed Messrs. Pursglove and Muddle, while divers faces
scowled in at the open lattice. Observing all of which, Mr. Sturton spoke:
“We’d best be going, Oxham. We’ll see no more o’ Potter to-night, I
reckon, leastways—not hereabouts. We’d best be going——”
“Go?” roared Oxham. “Not yet, damme!” And, speaking, drew a pistol
from his pocket, but, in that moment, down came Mr. Pym’s unerring
prawning-net, completely enveloping his head, and thus securely netted
he was deftly disarmed by Mr. Bunkle, who, levelling the weapon at the
gloomy five, commanded them to begone; which order they promptly obeyed,
followed by Sturton and lastly by Mr. Oxham, hustled ignominiously into
the street, his head still enveloped in the net, to be greeted by the
laughter of all Alfriston, as it seemed.
“We have raised the devil, I fear,” said Mr. Pym, as the hooting and
laughter died away. “We shall have Lord Sayle down on us for this, which
is bad, and I have lost a very good net—which is worse!”
“But egad, sir,” laughed Sir John, “sure never was net lost to better
purpose! You’ll stay to crack a bottle, I hope? You’ll do me the honour,
sir?”
“Thank’ee, no, Mr. Derwent. I must be up and away early to-morrow.”
“To paint, sir?”
“To prawn!” answered the painter, his eyes twinkling. “An occupation less
lofty, mayhap, but equally absorbing, and often bringing more ultimate
comfort and satisfaction.”
“But, sir—surely a picture——”
“May be good or bad,” sighed the painter, “but a prawn is ever and
always—a prawn! Have ye ever tried ’em—fresh boiled ... warm from the
pot, sir?”
“Never!”
“Ah,” quoth Mr. Pym, “there is, sir, to your man of delicate perception
and fine sentiment, in the strains of music, the glory of dawn, the
glow of sunset, the chaste beauty of evening, there is, I say, a tender
glamour, a joy inexpressible, but ... prawns ... warm from the pot may
reach the soul just as surely though by a different avenue. Perchance
to-morrow you may learn this—if you will?”
So saying, the painter laughed suddenly, shook hands and strode away.
“And now, sirs,” sighed Mr. Bunkle, carefully uncocking Mr. Oxham’s
pistol, “mindin’ that theer jugged-’are o’ mine as ha’ been a-juggin’ of
itself a sight too long, if you’ll gimme your orders an’ lemme go, I’ll
be obleeged.”
“Can you give us accommodation here, Mr. Bunkle?”
“Why, sir, that arl depends on how much, what-like and when?”
“Two rooms. Now.”
“Was you a-thinkin’ o’ stayin’ ’ere, sirs? For long?”
“Some weeks.”
“Think o’ that, now! Dunno as oi bean’t that upset to tell you as arl my
rooms be took, sir. But theer be ‘The Star’ down the street, comfortable
and very ’ome-like——”
“Then you won’t take us, Mr. Bunkle?”
“Caan’t, sir! It bean’t nowise possible nohow or——” Mr. Bunkle paused
suddenly, for in the circumambient air was a dull yet persistent
knocking, a noise very difficult to locate, that seemed now overhead, now
under foot, now behind the walls; hearkening to which elusive sound, Mr.
Bunkle’s eye grew dreamy, he stroked his clean-shaven chin, he smoothed
his neat apron and, the knocks having subsided, coughed and spoke:
“Two rooms, oi think you said, sir? Only two?”
“Two, Mr. Bunkle.”
“Why, then, if two’ll be enough, I think ... p’r’aps ... maybe we might
... manage it.”
Here three raps louder then before.
“Yes ... I be purty sure we can, sir.”
Here two raps.
“We will, sir.”
Here a single sharp rap and silence.
“Mr. Bunkle,” said Sir John, smiling, “we thank you, and I can
promise that you will find us very quiet lodgers—full of sympathy and
understanding.”
“Why, then, gen’elmen, if ye’ll trouble to step this way, my mist’us will
show ye your rooms.”