In one corner of the room Dick kept an ancient fowling-piece,
more of a tool of husbandry than a weapon, since his
only use for it was to scare birds. It was a
heavy, unhandy thing, with a brass barrel down which
I could have dropped a sizable duck egg, and round
its thick-rimmed nozzle some one had rudely graven,
“Happy is he that escapeth me.” I
fetched it out of its corner, and cleaned and oiled
it. I now loaded it, for powder-horn and shot-bag
hung near it on the wall, putting in a handful of
the biggest sort of shot, swan-shot as I should call
them. During this task, Mistress Waynflete watched
me narrowly, but made no reference to it.
“Now,” said I, “our main requisite
is the stuff, the ready, the rhino, the swag—call
it what you will. How do you fancy me as a knight
of the road? The first copper-faced farmer I
come across shall surely stand and deliver. Here’s
an argument he cannot resist.”
At last my scrutiny of the road was rewarded.
A solitary horseman came in sight from the direction
of the town.
“Mistress Waynflete,” said I, picking
up the fowling-piece, “there’s a traveller
yonder coming from Stafford. It will be well if
I go and ask him a few questions.”
She almost leaped at me, red anger flashing in her
eyes but her face white as milk. “Sir,”
she said, “you shall not turn thief for me.
I will not have it.”
“Pray, madam,” replied I huffily, “expound
the moral difference between stealing ham and stealing
guineas. I’m all for morality.”
“I cannot, Master Wheatman, but you must not,
shall not go.” She caught hold of my sleeve.
“Say you won’t! If you are found out
it means—”
“I shall not be found out. You may take
that for sure. Think you that I cannot pluck
yon chough without being pinched? It’s no
more robbery than our eating Dick’s ham and
eggs. We are soldiers in enemy’s country,
and we plunder by right of the known rules of war.
As a concession to your prejudices in favour of the
jog-trot morality of peace, I will e’en ask
him whether he be for James or George, and borrow or
command his guineas in accordance with his reply.
Loose my sleeve, madam!”
I loosened the grip of her fingers, and led her back
to her chair. “You overrate my danger,
sweet mistress, and under rate our need. Without
money, we might as well lie under the nearest hedge
and leave Jack Frost to settle matters his way, and
a cold, nasty way it would be. Your guinea is
a good fighter, and we need his help. It must
be done, and, never fear, I’ll carry it through
safely.”
So I left her, white hands grappling the arms of her
chair, and white face turned away from me.
MY CAREER AS A HIGHWAYMAN
