Mr. Bradbury, if he had not been permitted to spare the bottle at dinner, made no show of it in his complexion. He sat by the fire, his legs crossed; he had a silver snuff-box set with some glittering gem in his left hand; his face was almost as white as his linen. Observing him, I had a sense that the mind at the back of his broad brow was as keen and as sparkling as the jewels on his fingers. With his leanness, his bloodlessness, his coldly impassive face, his cunning eyes peering through his spectacles, he was as odd a contrast to his stout, drink-flushed patron in his riding-rig as were his air of precision and the trimness of his dress to the frank disorder of the rich furniture in the room. Squire Chelton’s desk was littered with papers and parchments; an inkhorn was overset among them; goose quills had blown to the carpet; hats, cloaks, riding-whips, and gloves were tossed pell-mell on chairs and table. On this dark oaken table a half-emptied flagon of crystal and silver was set, and a circle of glasses stained with the red dregs of wine. The library was lit by many tall candles in silver sticks, and by the leaping flames from the hearth before which Mr. Bradbury warmed himself, with the reflections flashing from his jewelled hands, his snuff-box and the silver buckles of his shoes. I noted the keenness of Mr. Bradbury’s gaze immediately Tim thrust us forward; all the while I remained in the room, I fancied that his eyes never left me.
“Here’s the young varmints, sir and Mr. Bradbury,” Tim announced, touching his forelock.
“Young Vining and young Howe,—hey?” cried Mr. Chelton, essaying to frown majestically. “Caught poaching! Ye’re a credit to the parson who has the schooling of the pair of ye. What have ye to say for yourselves? Come!”
We stared up at Mr. Chelton; grinned foolishly, but said nothing.
“Answer the Squire, varmint! Answer the Squire!” Tim muttered hoarsely at our backs.
“Tell the story for them, Kerrick,” said Mr. Chelton. “Maybe when they hear your account they’ll be ready enough to answer for themselves and call you a liar”—chuckling.
Tim, stepping forward, briskly told his tale—no, he told the tale of poachings from Chelton for the twelvemonth past, not limiting himself to the matter of the evening, the rabbit in Tony’s jacket or the conjectured content of my bag. Not a pheasant, not a hare, not a rabbit had been poached from Chelton, but had gone—on Tim’s assertion—in company with Tony and me,—the worst pair of varmints, Tim dubbed us, as never was. Meanwhile, Squire Chelton from ruddy grew purple, from good-humoured choleric and from choleric nigh choking with passion. From time to time, as Tim proceeded, Mr. Chelton would burst out, “D’ye hear this, Bradbury?” or “D’ye hear that?” Mr. Bradbury nodded; said nothing, and took snuff, while he peered at me through his spectacles. Tim wound up with a narration of the affair of the evening,—glowering at him I rejoiced to see the damage wrought by the bramble to his nose and chin.