The day was near its close, and the keen, clear easterly wind had in
the end swept all clouds and mist from the air, leaving the features
of the landscape sharp and defined, in the peculiar purple light of
the evening, when a man with a brass-bound mahogany box upon his back
stopped at the door of the little hovel, on the wide, wild common to
which I have so frequently had occasion to refer.
About three-quarters of an hour before, in trudging with his pack out
of the neighbouring little town, he had been passed by a post-chaise
coming from the side of London; and on turning his head he had
seen that it contained only a single traveller--a handsome and
fashionably-dressed young man, with a complexion considerably darker
than is usually found amongst Englishmen. The pedlar very naturally
concluded that the stranger was nothing to him, nor he to the
stranger, and that he should never behold his face again; and trudging
upon his way over the common, he turned a few steps aside, to see if
the inhabitants of the hovel, who had more than once purchased bodkins
and needles and such little articles of him, would now be tempted by
any of his wares.
Pedlars--although by continual chaffering with every different variety
of human beings they usually acquire a great deal of shrewdness, not
to say cunning--may be deceived in their calculations as well as other
people, and it proved so in the present case. He knocked at the door
of the cottage, and then shook it, saying to himself, "The old woman's
in one of her moping fits, I dare say." But still he received no
answer; and then, going to the little window, he tried to look in.
There was a board up in the inside, however, which effectually
prevented him from seeing, and he was about to turn away, when he
perceived a tall figure advancing towards him from the side of the
high-road.
Now, the pedlar was a stout, broad-shouldered, clean-limbed man, of
about fifty years of age; and having passed the greater part of his
life in hardy excise, he was a match for most men in point of
strength; but having had occasion, more than once, to fight for the
worldly goods and chattels which he carried on his back, he always
cast a suspicious eye towards any one who approached him hastily,
which was the case with the stranger; and therefore, unslinging his
pack, he put it down behind him, that he might have his right arm more
at liberty for the exercise of the stout oaken staff with which it was
armed.
At the moment when he first perceived the figure advancing towards
him, it was coming up between the high sandy banks through which a
little rivulet flowed, and the evening sun cast a deep shadow upon it.
The instant after, however, it emerged into the broad light, and the
whole dress and appearance removed at once anything like apprehension
which he had previously felt. Another minute showed him the face which
he had seen in the post-chaise; and touching his hat, he replaced his
box upon his shoulders, in order to walk away with it, when he saw the
stranger approach the door of the hovel and knock for admission.
"There's no one in there, sir," said the pedlar in a civil tone; "they
are all gone, poor people, I suppose. Perhaps the old lady is dead,
for she was in a failing sort of way when last I passed."
"No, she is not dead," replied the stranger; "but it is probable a
friend of mine, who took an interest in her, has provided for her more
comfortably than she could be here. I did not think he would have been
so rapid in his proceedings, or I might have spared myself a journey.
I wonder where the boy is who I hear was with her: are you sure he is
not in the cottage?"
"He is not there, sir; the place is all shut up," replied the pedlar.
"He's a good boy, and was very kind to the poor woman, though the
people said they were not relations; and indeed I always thought she
must have been a gentlewoman at one time."
"You were not far wrong," replied Henry Hayley--for he it was. "I
suppose you are well acquainted with the country around?" he
continued, turning away from the hovel and walking on by the pedlar's
side towards the highroad.
"I know every inch of it," answered the man, "for fifty miles round
and more, and many another part of the country besides. I have spent
more than twenty years of my life in wandering about with my pack on
my back, so that there is hardly a cottage in the counties I travel
that I do not know."
"Perhaps, then, you can tell me my best way to the house of a farmer
named Graves," said Henry Hayley; "I think it is some six or seven
miles off."
"I can tell you the way well enough, sir," replied the man; "but I
doubt, with all my telling, that you'll find it; for you see it lies
on the other road, and the cross-country lanes are rather crooked."
"Can you show me the way?" asked Henry again; "I shall be inclined to
pay you well for your trouble."
The man hesitated for a moment, but then replied--
"I may as well go that way as another, though it is out of my regular
beat. But is it the old man or the young one you want to see, sir?"
"The old one, I think," replied Henry: "what is his age?"
"Oh, he is well-nigh upon seventy," answered the pedlar, "and a
strange old man too. I don't know whether he'll be civil to you; but
he's not to most people, though he's a kind old man at bottom, I hear.
He had some troubles when he was younger, and that has made him very
cross ever since. But we had better cut across the common here, for it
lies away there to the westward."
"Henry turned according to his guide's directions, and followed him
for some little way in silence; but at length he said--
"What troubles were they that you alluded to just now as having
befallen the old man?"
"Troubles that the rich sometimes bring upon the poor, sir," answered
the pedlar. "Just about the time when I first took to this trade, I
remember him, as fine a looking man of forty-three or forty-four as
any in the whole county, and as gay and light-hearted too. He had then
two children, a girl of about seventeen or eighteen, and this young
man who now holds the great farm: he was not above fourteen then, and
the girl was the prettiest creature I ever saw in my life, and quite
like a lady. Poor Mary Graves! I shan't forget her in a hurry. But she
fell in love, one unlucky day, with a gentleman who came down into
these parts from London--a rich merchant they said he was. He did not
behave well by the old man, though not so bad as they said at first;
but he coaxed the girl to go away with him, without her father's
knowledge; and for a long time Farmer Graves thought he had seduced
her, and it well-nigh broke his heart. In the end, however, he found
that they were really married; but she died with her first child, poor
thing, and the old man has never got over it."
"Poor man!" said Henry, in a very grave tone; "it is a sad tale
indeed. Did his daughter's husband never do anything to compensate for
the pain he had inflicted?"
"There are some things, sir," said the pedlar, "for which there is no
compensation. He could not give him back his child again; he could not
wipe out a long year of misery, during which the old man was ruined
and dishonoured; he could never make his mind what it was before, nor
take out of his heart all the bitterness he had planted there. I have
heard, indeed, that he did offer to do a great deal which Farmer
Graves would not accept of; and the people say that it was through him
that the young man was enabled to take this great farm he now holds,
and to stock it. They never knew rightly who he really was, for they
say the name he was married under was a feigned one; and all they
could find out was that he was a great merchant in London; for the
child was put out to nurse for some time, and then the father came
suddenly and took it away, and nothing more was ever heard of it, by
the family at least."
Henry Hayley fell into deep thought, and the reader acquainted with
the early part of his history may easily conceive the nature of his
meditation. After a time, however, as they walked on, he resumed the
conversation with his companion, but changed the subject entirely,
talking of the state of the country and the condition of the country
people, of the residents in the neighbourhood, and of the curious
state of wandering commerce by which his companion gained his
livelihood. He found him a shrewd, intelligent man, who was evidently
accustomed, during the solitary hours he passed in proceeding from
place to place, to think a great deal and deeply of the many different
things that came to his knowledge in his travels over the face of the
country. It seemed that while disposing of his wares he gained in
exchange, not only money, but the history of those with whom he dealt;
and that in journeying onwards he turned over and over in thought all
the little facts he had acquired, or the scenes that he had witnessed,
reasoning upon them with great acuteness and good sense, so that he
was ever ready to comment with a degree of caustic precision unusual
in the small trader of a town, who has little leisure for any thoughts
unconnected with his business.
Curiosity, of course, was one trait in his character, and he did not
fail to make sundry efforts to learn more of his companion, and to
discover what could be his business with old Farmer Graves. Henry,
however, set all questions at defiance; and in the end the pedlar,
seeing that it was in vain to inquire, gave up his efforts in despair.
"That is a poor-looking house," said Henry, as they were approaching
the opposite side of the common; "it, seems hardly fit for the
habitation of a human being. Has it any occupants now?"
"No, sir; none at present," replied his companion. "It is a poor place
surely; and yet it is better than it was twelve months ago, for, the
gentleman who lives in the large house on the hill there--you cannot
see it for the trees--had the thatch mended. He does not think like a
great many of the gentlemen about, and sets to work in a different way
with the poor. It answers pretty well sometimes, and did in the
instance of the lad who lived here."
"How was that?" asked the young wanderer. "I should like to have an
example of his way of dealing with the poor: the subject is a very
interesting one."
"Why, sir, the way was this," answered the pedlar; "I had it from the
game-keeper who was with him when it all happened, and he's an honest
fellow, so I'm sure the story's true:--Mr. Payne, the gentleman who
lives up there, was coming home from shooting, one day last
October--he's very fond of shooting; and as he was crossing this bit
of the common about the time of sunset, with his two keepers, he saw
this hut, and looked up at it. I must tell you, it was raining as hard
as it could pour, and blowing fit to freeze one. So he said to the
head keeper, 'I suppose nobody lives in that place?' 'I beg your
pardon, sir,' said the keeper, 'but there does;' and then he told him
all about it. There was a poor lad who had lived in the parish a good
many years--an orphan--and as he had neither father nor mother to look
after him, he had been badly enough brought up: that was Billy Small's
first misfortune. The people pitied him a little, and some of the
farmers gave him a bit of work to do, from time to time. But Bill was
idle, and Bill was wild; and he got turned off here, and he got turned
off there, and in the end everybody abused him, and would have nothing
to do with him. Well, to make matters worse, when he was half starved
himself, he must needs have some one to starve with him, and so he
married a poor girl who had worked in the same fields with him; and
you may guess what a to do there was in the parish. I believe they'd
have hanged him for it, if they could but have proved that marriage
was felony. He tried to get work, and his wife tried; but no one would
have anything to say to him, though he promised hard to do better.
They all said he was lazy and idle--which was true enough; and they
said his wife was as bad, which might be true too, for aught I know;
but, however, the two poor things went from bad to worse, till they
took refuge in that hovel we passed just now. The boy said he would
not go into 'the house,' to be separated from his wife; and there they
lived--or, I should rather say, there they were dying--when Mr. Payne
passed. The keeper told him how terribly they were off, and that they
were both ill of pure starvation and want of covering. Well, the
gentleman said he would go in and see with his own eyes; and he found
them--the boy, and the girl, and their baby--all crouched up together
on some straw, with nothing on earth to cover them during the night
but the rags they had on during the day. As half the thatch was off,
the rain was pouring in at the other end of the hut, and the wind
blowing through at all quarters. The lad had just had a fit of some
kind, brought on, the doctor afterwards said, by privation; and the
girl was bathed in tears, thinking he was going to die. Well, Mr.
Payne is not a bad-hearted man, as gentlemen go, and he was very sorry
to see them in such a state; he had some sandwiches in his pocket, and
some sherry-and-water in a bottle, and that made them the best meal
they had had for many a day. He staid and talked with them, too, for
an hour or more; and though he did not promise them much, yet he spoke
to them kindly, and did not throw in the lad's teeth all the foolish
things he had done, but asked him if he were well again, and work were
given him, whether he would be steady and industrious. The lad looked
at his little wife, and said with tears in his eyes that he would try;
but that he was sure that nobody would take him, for he had asked for
employment everywhere in vain. Then Mr. Payne told him not to be
downhearted, for that when he was well enough to work he would give a
stray job or two and try him, and in the mean time the girl might come
down to the house for some soup and bread. Hope's a good medicine,
sir, and that he left them, and as he went home, he thought how he
might do them good; and that very night he sent for two of the
farmers, who were guardians of the poor, and talked to them about the
young man. At first they were very hard about it, and called William
all sorts of names for marrying when he had no means of supporting
himself, and worse still for not coming into the workhouse; and they
declared that if people would but let him alone and not help him, he
would soon be starved out of his obstinacy. Mr. Payne thought
differently, however. He said he believed there were many people who
would rather die of starvation than go in; and as to his marriage, he
said, though it was certainly a very foolish thing, yet he had already
been punished more than enough for what was no crime after all. And he
told them, too, that he thought, from what he had seen of the lad, it
would do him good rather than harm, for that he would work more
steadily, now that he had somebody to work for, than he had ever done
before. What he said made no impression upon one of the farmers; but
the other seemed to think there might be some truth in it, and
promised if the lad got well to give him a trial. Mr. Payne took care
that he should get well, for all that he and the poor girl wanted was
food and covering, and a very little medicine; and Mr. Payne sent his
own doctor to him, and had the thatch mended, and sent them soup and
bread every day, and now and then some meat--not much, indeed, for he
afterwards told the keeper that the whole did not cost five pounds.
Nevertheless, it was quite enough, for William got strong and hearty
again, and so did his wife; and the baby, which was but a little bag
of bones, throve wonderfully. It is strange what fine hardy babies
starving people will have sometimes. A rich man's child would have
been killed by one-half what that little thing went through. But, to
cut my story short, sir, when they were all well again, and had some
clothes given to them--flannel petticoats, and jackets, and things
that Mrs. Payne keeps for the poor--they turned out very tidy, and Mr.
Payne first tried the lad himself to work a bit in his garden, though
he did not want him, but just for a trial, like; and when he had
satisfied himself that the lad was inclined to do well, he put Farmer
Slade in mind of his promise. The farmer was very willing when he
found all had gone right, and took him upon the farm as a labourer. He
has been well-nigh six months at it now, and every one says that there
is not a more industrious, clever lad in all the place, and things
have changed with him altogether; for he is gone down to live in one
of the nice little cottages by the farm, for which he pays a shilling
a-week quite regular, and they have contrived to pick up a good lot of
furniture--part of which he made for himself, by-the-way, for he's not
a bad hand at carpentering; and his wife's always neat and tidy, and
so is the baby. The girl told me herself that she got all their
clothes and such things by her own work in picking and hoeing, that
Bill might be able to save a little out of his wages in case another
rainy day should come; but I don't think it will, sir; for if they go
on as they are going, they will make sunshine for themselves."
While the pedlar was telling his story, the truth of every word of
which the author has had an opportunity of ascertaining, he had led
the way up the slope of a little hill; and Henry Hayley turned round
to take another look at the miserable hovel which had given rise to
the narrative, and which was now about a quarter of a mile behind
them.
"Either my eyes deceive me," he said, "or you are mistaken in
saying that the place is uninhabited. There is smoke rising up out
of it--don't you see?"
"So there is," said the pedlar, turning round and shading his eyes
with his hand. "Ay, and there's a man down by the pond there: I wonder
what he's about. There used to be good fish in that pond; it belongs
to Mr. Payne."
As he spoke, the figure of another man appeared at the door of the
hut; and they could hear a low whistle, which apparently caused the
man at the pond to turn round and walk quickly towards the hut.
"We had better get on, sir," said the pedlar; "there are some bad sort
of folks down here just now, and there's no knowing what they may do."
"What have they been doing?" asked Henry, walking on as he led.
"Oh! thieving, and sheep-stealing, and poaching, and all manner of
things," replied the pedlar. "The people in London are at the bottom
of it all; for these men would not dare to go on as they do if they
could not easily and quickly dispose of what they steal. They were
caught once by a cunning contrivance, and that stopped them for a long
time."
"How was that effected?" asked Henry.
"Why, you see, sir," replied the man, "the way they carried on their
trade was this: they went into a field, killed half-a-dozen sheep or
so, skinned them upon the spot, and left the head, skin, and feet in
the field. Then upon the commons, you know, there's a great number of
donkeys. Well, they used to gather them all together, or as many as
they wanted, put the mutton on their backs, and drive them away ten or
twelve miles to market. They found plenty of butchers ready to buy the
carcases, without asking where they came from--just as men buy game
now-a-days. However, a man who had a donkey on the common found that
every now and then he lost him for a whole day, and sometimes when he
came home his back was bloody; and that roused suspicion as to how the
stolen sheep were disposed of. For a long time they could not trap
them; but at last a shrewd old fellow fell upon a plan, and getting
the asses all together one night, they stuffed their hoofs with a
compound of red ochre and something else to make it stiff, and then
turned them loose, well knowing they would not go very far before
morning. The next day, ten or twelve of the donkeys were missing, and
a whole heap of people set out upon the track--for there were plenty
of marks of red ochre near the field, where some sheep had been stolen
the night before. They had no great difficulty now; for all along the
road the thieves had taken, one stone had a mark, and another stone
had a mark, for nine or ten miles or more, till they came to the place
where the carcases had been carried; and there they found thieves, and
sheep, and asses, and all. That stopped the business for some time;
but now they have got another plan, which is safer. A man comes down
from London in a light cart, and there are five or six different
places, at each of which he stops, gets out, and goes into the next
field. There he finds whatever has been stolen during the night; and
whatever it may be, whether it be a dead sheep, fowls, or game, linen,
clothes, or anything else, there is sure to be a ticket upon it with
the price marked. If he likes the price, he takes the goods, and he
almost always does, for they never put half the value upon them; and
then he sends down the money every week to what they call their
bankers, in some of the towns near; and they take the fellow-ticket to
that which they left upon the goods, and get the money, giving the
banker his share."
"Is it possible that such a system is tolerated in England?" exclaimed
Henry. "Why, it could not be carried on even in Spain, where heaven
knows, justice is lax enough."
"It's true notwithstanding," said the pedlar: "they would have been
caught long ago by the old Bow Street runners, for they would have
pounced upon the people in London; but you see, sir, we go on
improving, this country of ours. We are always improving: that is to
say, mending one thing and spoiling another. The streets of London
are, I dare say, a great deal quieter and safer, though we hear of bad
things enough still, considering how much is paid for keeping them
quiet; but then, if a great crime is committed, or a gang of
scoundrels formed for robbing and plundering honest men, months go by
before these men in the blue coats find out anything about it."
As Henry Hayley knew very little of the affairs of the London police,
he did not enter into the question of its efficiency with his worthy
companion; and still conversing, though upon other subjects, they
walked on more quickly after they had reached the summit of the rise,
passed the lodge-gates of Mr. Payne, and soon after entered upon
another heath, more wild and desolate-looking than the first. The sun
had by this time set, but they had yet full half-an-hour of the long
twilight of northern lands before them; and the rich purple tints of
the whole landscape were a compensation, in the eyes of one at least
of the two, for the brighter beams of the day. Passing onward across
the heath, the grey shades of night gaining perceptibly upon the
lingering light, they came suddenly upon the edge of a small sandpit,
from which was rising up a glare that tinged with red the thick bushes
of gorse near the edge. Both Henry and the pedlar stopped and looked
over, when, certainly greatly to the surprise of the former, a group
was seen seated round a good warm fire, engaged in an occupation
perhaps the least to be expected in the world at such a spot and in
such circumstances.
The party was composed of three: a man of fifty-four or fifty-five
years of age, another of four or five-and-thirty, and a good-looking
but rather robust young woman of six or seven-and-twenty. Some kettles
and pots, a pair of bellows, and various other articles of the
tinker's trade, with a bundle, apparently of clothes, sufficiently
denoted the calling of the party; but that which was worthy of
admiration and surprise was, as I have said, the occupation in which
they were engaged. The young woman was seated by the side of the
younger man, her head resting on his shoulder, and her arm thrown
carelessly across his knee; but her eyes as well as his were fixed
upon their elder companion, who, sitting with his back against the
bank and his knees drawn up so as to form a sort of desk, was reading
to them out of a large quarto volume, very neatly covered with green
baize.
The clear, strong voice rose up distinctly, and Henry heard a part of
the eighteenth chapter of St. Matthew. He would willingly have
listened long, for there was something which seemed to him so fine and
touching in the sounds of those holy words read by such a man, in such
a situation, that the exquisite beauty and sublimity of the truths
there written seemed to acquire, if possible, a deeper force than when
read in the crowded church, or even in the solemn cathedral.
"For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I
in the midst of them," read the poor man below; and Henry thought,
"Surely it is so, even here;" but his companion, who did not
understand the feelings which had been excited by the sounds,
interrupted the reading with little reverence, saying aloud, "Ah,
Master Barnes! is that you? How is it that you are not at Slade's
to-night, and so near?"
"The barn is quite full," said the old man, as they all looked up,
"and so we came here. We shall do very well; and Master Slade was very
sorry he couldn't take us in, and gave us some milk to make up, so
that's something."
"How do you do, James?" said the pedlar, nodding to the younger man.
"I say--if any fellows should come and ask if you have seen us, and
which way we have gone, tell them we have taken to the right. I don't
half like the looks of things under Knight's-hill."
"Why, I saw two men go down through the gully there about five minutes
ago," said the younger man. "I don't know who they were--strangers, I
think. But I'll tell them what you say, if I see any one. Go on,
father; I want to hear that out."
Henry Hayley and the pedlar walked on, and very naturally the former
inquired into the history and character of the persons he had just
seen.
"They are very good, respectable people," said the pedlar, who was
more a man of thought than of feeling. "The father has travelled this
country for a great many years, mending pots and kettles and all kinds
of tinware. He always charges the same sum, which is moderate, bad
times or good, and is supposed to be quite rich enough to lodge at a
public-house if he liked it, but he never sets his foot in one of
them; and the farmers are all generally well content to give him
lodging in a barn or out-house, for they are certain that there will
be no pilfering at the farm that night. When he can't get such
accommodation, he passes the night anywhere--in a copse or in a
sandpit, as you have seen just now. He always goes to church on a
Sunday in a good clean suit, and the other tinkers and trampers call
him. 'Gentleman Barnes.' The young man is his son-in-law, and I can
assure you, sir, his daughter was as much courted as if she had been a
great lady; but the old gentleman would not let her marry, if she had
been inclined, which she did not seem to be, till he found a man to
his mind; and I will say James Staples promises to be just such
another as himself. We are not far from Mr. Graves's farm now. You can
see the chimneys up there, just over the trees."
Imagination or memory must have helped the worthy pedlar, for Henry
Hayley could see nothing at any distance, and it was in fact quite
dark. The only objects visible were two rows of trees, one on either
side of the lane they were entering, and some stars peeping out in the
sky above. Once, through the trees, indeed, the young gentleman
thought he caught the glimmer of a light, probably in a cottage
window; and being somewhat impatient to arrive at least so far on the
way as the house of Mr. Graves, Henry strode forward a little in
advance of the pedlar, as in the lane there seemed no probability of
missing the road.
They had proceeded thus for the distance of about a third of a mile
when the young gentleman suddenly stopped and turned round, on hearing
a sort of choking cry behind him; and he had just time, in the dim and
obscure light of the night, to see two men pulling the pedlar
backwards by the leathern strap which supported his pack, when he
himself received a violent blow on the head from a thick stick, which
made him stagger and fall against the bank. He had heard no one
approach, for the lane was sandy, and the light sound of their own
footfalls was all that met the ears of the travellers.
The fire flashed from Henry's eyes, and his brain reeled with the blow
he had received; but he was accustomed to perils of all kinds; and
while two of the assailants were engaged, apparently, in plundering
the pedlar of his pack, he sprang upon the third as soon as he
regained his feet, closed with him at once, and by an exertion of his
great strength had mastered him and thrown him down, when a fourth man
leaped from the bank above, and cast himself at once upon the young
soldier.
The contest would not have been so unequal, even then, as it might
have seemed, for Henry was a far more powerful man than either of his
assailants; but one of the others, who had been engaged with the
pedlar, left his companion to hold the wandering merchant down, and
hastened to join the affray which was going on a few steps farther
forward.
It still took the whole of their united efforts to master a man of
great natural strength, rendered available in a moment by the habit of
robust exercises; but he was at length brought to the ground by a
tremendous blow of a stick, and for a moment or two lay unconscious of
all that was passing around.
When Henry Hayley revived to a sense of what was going on about him,
he found his head supported on somebody's knee, and a pair of hands at
his throat, busily untying his black handkerchief.
Nature has an instinctive abhorrence of being meddled with in places
whence the road to the life-blood is short, and especially about the
throat; so that Henry's first impulse was to raise himself as well as
he could, and thrust away the busy hands.
"It's all right," said the voice of the pedlar; "he's coming to. Thank
you, James--thank you. If you had not taken it into your head to
follow us, the blackguards would have done for us, that's clear
enough. I feel the squeeze of that fellow's knee upon my breastbone
now. But who is the other man who came with you, and who's gone to
look after them?"
"It is John Wirling, one of Mr. Graves's men," said a voice which
Henry remembered. And then it added, addressing him, "Well sir, how
are you getting on now? You have spoiled one of the rogues anyhow, for
he ran as if he could hardly get along. I should not wonder if John
caught him."
"I hope he won't try," said the pedlar, "though they've got my pack;
but they'll turn on him, to a certainty. No, no--here he comes."
With a giddy and aching head Henry Hayley now raised himself from the
ground, and all that had happened after he was stunned was explained
to him in a few moments.
Seeing some men walking rapidly after the travellers, and knowing that
two others had gone on before, the younger of the two tinkers whom he
had seen in the sandpit had followed as fast as possible, getting the
assistance of a labouring man as he went. They had come up just as the
villains were rifling Henry's pockets, and had scared them from their
work before it was completed.
As the man who took upon himself the task of explanation concluded,
Henry suddenly put his hand into his pocket, with an exclamation of
alarm. The next moment he withdrew it, saying--
"They have stolen my pocket-book, full of valuable papers. I will give
a hundred guineas to any one who recovers it. I would rather that they
had taken all I have in the world than that."
"That is unlucky indeed, sir," exclaimed the pedlar; "but if it has
got nothing but papers in it, perhaps we may get it back."
"It contains nothing but papers, and those only valuable to myself,"
replied Henry. "They have left my purse, which I should have cared
little about, and taken that which it is impossible to replace."
"Well, sir, leave it to me," said the pedlar: "I marked one of the men
well, and I'll see if we cannot get it; for I know somewhat of these
people's ways, as you may have seen by what I told you. And now, sir,
we had better trot on, if you are going to Mr. Graves's; for you've
had a bad knock on the head, and may as well have something done for
it."
"Whoever obtains that pocket-book for me with its contents shall have
a hundred guineas for his pains, and all that he expends shall be
paid," repeated Henry.
And after having given his address, at a hotel in London, to the two
men who had come up to his assistance, and bestowed on them a
considerable part of the money in his purse, he followed his guide,
with a slow step and an anxious and thoughtful air.