documents in my own pocket without more ado, and gave up my
thoughts to a pleasanter subject. I changed my mind about a disguise,
and put on my back the best clothes that I had to wear. I wished I had
the new suits I had been measured for, but the spalpeen of a tailor
would not let me have them unless I paid him some of the money they
cost. When I came to think over it I saw that Strammers would surely
never recognize me as a gay spark of fashion when he had merely seen
me once before, torn and ragged, coming down from a tree on top of his
blunderbuss. So I instructed Paddy to say that he and Jem were
servants of the best master in the world, who was a great lover of
gardens; that he was of immense generosity, and if Strammers allowed
him to come into the gardens by the little door he would be a richer
man when the door was opened than he would be if he kept it shut. I
had been long enough in London to learn the golden method of
persuasion; any how I could not bring myself to the chance of meeting
with my lady, and me dressed worse than one of her own servants.

We were all in the lane when the church bells ceased to ring, and if
any one had seen us he would simply have met a comely young Irish
gentleman taking the air of a Sunday morning with two faithful
servants at his heels. I allowed something like ten impatient minutes
to crawl past me, and then, as the lane was clear and every one for
the church within its walls, I tipped a nod to Paddy, and he, with Jem
by his side, tapped lightly at the door, while I stood behind the
trunk of the tree up which I had climbed before. There was no sign of
Doctor Chord in the vicinity, and for that I was thankful, because up
to the last moment I feared the little man could not help intruding
himself on what was somebody else's business.

The door was opened with some caution, letting Paddy and Jem enter;
then it was closed, and I heard the bolts shot into their places. But
I was speedily to hear more than bolts that Sunday morning. There was
a sound of thumping sticks, and I heard a yell that might well have
penetrated to the "Pig and Turnip" itself, although it was miles away.
I knew Paddy's cry, and next there came some good English cursing from
Jem Bottles, while a shrill voice called out:--

"Catch the red-haired one; he's the villain we want!"

In the midst of various exclamations, maledictions, and other
constructions of speech, mingled, I thought, with laughter, I flung