He slipped the pistols into his pocket, pulled out
two crown pieces, and tossed them to Prudy.
“That’ll pay for the damage, I daresay.”
So, turning on his heel, he marched out, leaving them
in the firelight. The crowd in the passage fell
back to right and left, and in a moment more he had
disappeared into the black drizzle outside.
But the tradition of his feat survives, and the six
holes in Prudy’s panel still bear witness to
its truth.
YOUNG ZEB SELLS HIS SOUL.
These things were reported to Young Zeb as he sat
in his cottage, up the coombe, and nursed his pain.
He was a simple youth, and took life in earnest,
being very slow to catch fire, but burning consumedly
when once ignited. Also he was sincere as the
day, and had been treacherously used. So he
raged at heart, and (for pride made him shun the public
eye) he sat at home and raged—the worst
possible cure for love, which goes out only by open-air
treatment. From time to time his father, Uncle
Issy, and Elias Sweetland sat around him and administered
comfort after the manner of Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar.
“Your cheeks be pale, my son—lily-white,
upon my soul. Rise, my son, an’ eat, as
the wise king recommended, sayin’, ‘Stay
me wi’ flagons, comfort me wi’ yapples,
for I be sick o’ love.’ A wise word
that.”
“Shall a man be poured out like water,”
inquired Uncle Issy, “an’ turn from his
vittles, an’ pass his prime i’ blowin’
his nose, an’ all for a woman?”
“I wasn’ blowin’ my nose,”
objected Zeb, shortly.
“Well, in black an’ white you wasn’,
but ye gave me that idee.”
Young Zeb stared out of the window. Far down
the coombe a slice of blue sea closed the prospect,
and the tan sails of a small lugger were visible there,
rounding the point to the westward. He watched
her moodily until she passed out of sight, and turned
to his father.
“To-morrow, did ’ee say?”
“Iss, to-morrow, at eleven i’ the forenoon.
Jim Lewarne brought me word.”
“Terrible times they be for Jim, I reckon,”
said Elias Sweetland. “All yestiddy he
was goin’ back’ards an’ forrards
like a lost dog in a fair, movin’ his chattels.
There’s a hole in the roof of that new cottage
of his that a man may put his Sunday hat dro’;
and as for his old Woman, she’ll do nought but
sit ‘pon the lime-ash floor wi’ her tout-serve
over her head, an’ call en ivery name but what
he was chris’ened.”
“Nothin’ but neck-an’-crop would
do for Tresidder, I’m told,” said Old
Zeb. “’I’ve a-sarved ‘ee faithful,’
said Jim, ‘an’ now you turns me out wi’
a week’s warnin’.’ ‘You’ve
a-crossed my will,’ says Tresidder, ‘an’
I’ve engaged a more pushin’ hind in your
place.’ ‘Tis a new fashion o’
speech wi’ Tresidder nowadays.”
“Ay, modern words be drivin’ out the old
forms. But ’twas only to get Jim’s
cottage for that strong-will’d supplantin’
furriner because Ruby said ‘twas low manners
for bride an’ groom to go to church from the
same house. So no sooner was the Lewarnes out
than he was in, like shufflin’ cards, wi’
his marriage garment an’ his brush an’
comb in a hand-bag. Tresidder sent down a mattress
for en, an’ he slept there last night.”
