ed
out to the head of the firm what had befallen their Mr. Poole, how he
had come with pistols in his bag, and gotten trodden on by Rob, my
reckless uncle, so that he was now lying, safe but disabled, in the
small wall cabinet of Heathknowes.

I was expecting nothing less than a cry for the peace officers, and to
be marched off between a file of soldiers--or, at any rate, the
constables of the town guard.

But instead the little man put on a pair of great glasses with rims of
black horn, and looked at my grandfather quizzically and a trifle
sternly to see if he were daring to jest. But presently, seeing the
transparent honesty of the man (as who would not?), he broke out into a
snort of laughter, snatched open a door at his elbow, and cried out at
the top of his voice (which, to tell the truth, was no better than a
screech), "Dick Poole--ho there, big Dick Poole!--I want you, Dickie!"

I could see nothing from the next room but a haze of tobacco smoke,
which presently entering, set the old man in the dressing-gown
a-coughing.

"Send away thy rascals, Dick," he wheezed, "and shut that door, Dickie.
That cursed reek of yours would kill a hog of the stye. Hither with you,
good Dick!"

And after a clinking of glasses and the trampling of great boots on the
stairs, an immense man came in. His face was a riot of health. His eyes
shone blue and kindly under a huge fleece of curly black hair. There was
red in his cheeks, and his lips were full and scarlet. His hand and arm
were those of a prizefighter. He came in smiling, bringing with him such
an odour of strong waters and pipe tobacco that, between laughing and
coughing, I thought the old fellow would have choked. Indeed, I made a
step forward to pat the back of his dressing-gown of flannel, and if
Mary Lyon had been there, I am sure nothing would have stopped her from
doing it.

Even when he had a little recovered, he still stood hiccoughing with the
tears in his eyes, and calling out with curious squirms of inward
laughter, "Dick, lad, this will never do. Thou art under watch and ward
down at the pirn-mill of Marnhoul! And it was a wench that did it. Often
have I warned thee, Dick! Two pistols thou hadst in a black bag.
Dick--for shame, Dick--for shame, thus to fright a decent woman! And her
son, Rob (I think you said was the name of him), did trample the very
life out of you--which served you well and right, Dickie! Oh, Dickie,
for shame!"

The big man stood look