As the hollibubber still clung to his arm, he gave
a push and broke loose. The old man tumbled
beside the path with his head against the potato fence.
Zeb with a curse took to his heels and ran; nor for
a hundred yards did he glance behind.
When at last he flung a look over his shoulder, the
hollibubber had picked himself up and was kneeling
in the pathway. His hands were clasped and lifted.
“Too late!” shouted Zeb again, and dashed
on without a second look.
YOUNG ZEB WINS HIS SOUL BACK.
At half-past nine, next morning, the stranger sat
in the front room of the cottage vacated by the Lewarnes.
On a rough table, pushed into a corner, lay the remains
of his breakfast. A plum-coloured coat with
silver buttons hung over the back of a chair by his
side, and a waist-coat and silver-laced hat to match
rested on the seat. For the wedding was to take
place in an hour and a half.
He sat in frilled shirt, knee-breeches and stockings,
and the sunlight streamed in upon his dark head as
he stooped to pull on a shoe. The sound of his
whistling filled the room, and the tune was, “Soldier,
soldier, will you marry me?”
His foot was thrust into the first shoe, and his forefinger
inserted at the heel, shoe-horn fashion, to slip it
on, when the noise of light wheels sounded on the
road outside, and stopped beside the gate. Looking
up, he saw through the window the head and shoulders
of Young Zeb’s grey mare, and broke off his
whistling sharply.
Rat-a-tat!
“Come in!” he called, and smiled softly
to himself.
The door was pushed open, and Young Zeb stood on the
threshold, looking down on the stranger, who wheeled
round quietly on his chair to face him. Zeb’s
clothes were disordered, and looked as if he had spent
the night in them; his face was yellow and drawn,
with dark semicircles underneath the eyes; and he
put a hand up against the door-post for support.
“To what do I owe this honour?” asked
the stranger, gazing back at him.
Zeb pulled out a great turnip-watch from his fob,
and said—
“You’m dressin?”
“Ay, for the wedding.”
“Then look sharp. You’ve got a bare
five-an’-twenty minnits.”
“Excuse me, I’m not to be married till
eleven.”
“Iss, iss, but they’re comin’
at ten, sharp.”
“And who in the world may ‘they’
be?”
“The press-gang.”
The stranger sprang up to his feet, and seemed for
a moment about to fly at Zeb’s throat.
“You treacherous hound!”
“Stand off,” said Zeb wearily, without
taking his hand from the door-post. “I
reckon it don’t matter what I may be, or may
not be, so long as you’m dressed i’ ten
minnits.”
The other dropped his hands, with a short laugh.
“I beg your pardon. For aught I know you
may have nothing to do with this infernal plot except
to warn me against it.”
