Chapter Twenty Six.
A Startling Scene.
To Dick Winthorpe’s great surprise there was no answer to his cry, and raising his voice again he shouted: “Who’s that? Help!”
His voice sounded wild and strange to him out there in that waste, closed in as he was by the darkness, and as he listened he could not repress a shudder, for everything now had become so silent that it was terrible. Away to his left there was the faint glow of light—very faint now—but everywhere else darkness, and all around him now a dead silence. His cry had seemed to alarm every moving creature in the fen, and it had crouched down, or dived, or in some way hidden itself, so that there was neither rustle of body passing through the reeds, splash of foot in the mire, nor beat of pinion in the air. He looked around him half in awe for the strange lights which he had seen gliding here and there like moths of lambent fire, but they too had disappeared, and startling as had been the noise he had heard, the silence seemed now so terrible that he turned cold.
“What a coward I am!” he said to himself at last. “What is there to be afraid about?”
He shouted again, and felt more uneasy, for as his voice died away all seemed more silent than ever, and he drew in a long hissing breath as he gazed vainly in the direction from which the splashing had seemed to come.
For quite half an hour all was perfectly still, but he did not move, partly from an intense desire to be certain, partly, it must be confessed, from a feeling of dread which oppressed him.
Then there was a rustle and a splash from somewhere behind him, such a noise as a bird might make. Directly after there came from a distance the scuttering noise made by a duck dabbling its bill in the ooze, and this was followed by a low quawk uttered by some nocturnal bird, perhaps by one of the butterbumps whose hoarse booming cry had come so strangely in the earlier part of the night.
As if these were signals to indicate to the animal life of the fen that all was right, sound after sound arose such as he had heard before; but there was one so different that it filled Dick Winthorpe’s ears, and as he listened he seemed to see a man in a punt, who had been crouching down among the reeds, rising up softly, and silently lowering a pole into the water to thrust the boat onward from where it had lain.
Even if it had been light the reeds and undergrowth would have hindered him from seeing anything, and in that darkness the impossibility was emphasised the more strongly; but all the same the faint splash, the light rubbing of wood against wood as the pole seemed to touch the side of the boat, the soft dripping of water, and the silky brushing rustle of the boat among the reeds and withes, joined in painting a mental picture upon the listener’s brain till it seemed to Dick that he was seeing with his ears this man in his boat escaping furtively so as not to be heard.
Dick was about to shout again, but he felt that if he did there would be no answer, and his heart began to beat strangely.
It was not fear now, but from a sudden excitement consequent upon a line of thought which suggested itself.
“Why did not this man answer to his cry—this man who was so furtively stealing away? Was it from fear of him?”
Undoubtedly fear of being seen and known.
Dick absolutely panted now with excitement. All feeling of dread passed away, taking with it the chilly sensation of cold and damp.
He listened.
Should he shout again and order him to stop? No; he knew that would be of no use, for, as if to make all more sure, there, as Dick listened, each and every nerve on the strain, was the increasing rapidity of the thrusts made with the pole, as the man evidently thought he was getting more and more out of hearing.
“Who is it?” thought Dick, as he realised that by his accident he had discovered what had been hidden from all who had patiently watched.
It was all plain enough to him now; and as he listened to the sounds dying away and growing lost among the splashings and rustlings made by the birds, which were recovering their confidence, the excitement quite took away the lad’s breath.
For there it all was. This wretch—some fen-man from the other side—miles away—had stolen across in the darkness, wending his way along the mere channels and over the pools, to commit another dastardly outrage, firing another cottage or stack, and then stolen back, his evil work done.
Whose house had been burned?
It must be the huts of the drain-makers. Dick felt sure of that. He did not know why, but there was the proof lately painted in the sky. And this base wretch, who could it be? he asked himself. Oh, if he could but have seen!
Would this be the same man who had been guilty of all these crimes? thought Dick, as he listened and found that the sounds had died out; and now far away there was a soft faint opalescent light telling him of the coming morn, and sending a thrill of joy through his breast. For there would be light and warmth, and the power to find the boat once more, and with it food. Better still, if he could get to his boat he might follow the wretch who was escaping, and know who it was.
Dick felt directly that it was impossible, for the man would be beyond pursuit long before he could find his boat; and after listening again he began to creep cautiously back to where he had lain down and slept and left Dave Gittan’s gun.
The dawn was spreading, and it showed the watcher which was the east, and hence taught him that the fire must have been somewhere in the direction of the Toft, for the glare in the sky was certainly north of where he now stood.
The dawn spread faster, and the reeds and alders about him began to be visible; and—yes, there was the gun, all cold to the touch and wet with dew.
“Not much shooting,” thought Dick as he mentally planned getting back to the boat, and hurrying across to Dave’s hut to replace the piece and suffer a good scolding.
“Never mind; I’ll give him a pound of powder. What’s that?”
Splashing—the rustling of reeds—voices.
There was no concealment here, and besides the sounds came in a contrary direction to that taken by the fleeing man.
“Hoi!” shouted Dick loudly.
“Hoi! hallo!” came back; and then a well-known voice cried: “Is that you, Dick?”
“Yes, father. Here! Ahoy!”
There was more splashing, more talking, and Dick’s heart leaped as he felt that his father had come in search of him, and that he would have an easier task than he had expected in finding his boat.
As the sounds approached the light increased, and Dick had no difficulty in going to meet them, picking his way carefully through the bog till he found himself close to a broad channel of reedy water, and here he had to pause.
“Where are you?” came from about a hundred yards away. And as he shouted to guide the search party he soon saw through the dim light a crowded punt propelled by two polers, and that there was another behind.
The next minute the foremost punt was within reach, and Dick stepped from a clump of rushes on board.
“Got anything to eat?” cried Dick, obeying his dominant instinct, and his voice sounded wolfish and strange.
“To eat!—no, sir,” cried his father sternly. “What are you doing here?”
“I lost myself, father, and went to sleep—woke up in the darkness, and couldn’t stir. Morning, Hicky!”
“Wheer’s my poont?” said the wheelwright.
“Close round here somewhere,” said Dick. “Go on and we shall find it. But where was the fire?”
The squire drew a hissing breath between his teeth as if in pain, and yet as if in relief; for it seemed to him that once more he was suspecting wrongfully, and that if his son had been mixed up with the past night’s outrage he would never have spoken so frankly.
“The fire, boy!” he said hoarsely; “at the Toft. The place is nearly burned down.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Dick; and there was so much genuine pain and agony in his voice that the squire grasped his son’s hand.
“Never mind, Dick; we’ll build it up again.”
“Ay, squire, we will,” cried Hickathrift; “and afore long.”
“And what is better, my boy, we saw the wretch who stole off the mere last night and fired the big reed-stack.”
“Yes, father,” cried Dick excitedly. “And I heard him come stealing by here.”
“You did, Dick?”
“Yes, father—not an hour ago.”
“Marston!” cried the squire, hailing the other boat.
“Yes.”
“We’re right. He came by here an hour ago. Dick heard him.”
“You did, Dick?” cried Mr Marston.
“Yes, but it was all in the dark, and I couldn’t see who it was.”
“That does not matter, my lad,” said the squire. “We know him now, and we only want to run him down.”
“Know him, father?”
“Yes, boy. It was Dave Gittan.”
“Nonsense!”
Dick burst into a laugh.
“Why, father, his place was burned too!”
“Yes, boy, to throw us off the scent—the scoundrel! but we shall have him now.”
Dick sat down in the punt like one astounded, while Hickathrift poled along the channel till he came to open water, where, just as the sun rose above the horizon, they caught sight of the tied-up boat.
“We’re too many in this,” said Hickathrift, making for the other punt. “You pole this here, and I’ll tak’ mine. Will you come, squire?”
“Yes,” said Dick’s father; and the change being made, the three boats were now propelled over the sunlit water, where, as the lad gladly applied himself to the food he had left behind, he learned something of what had taken place during the night.
Hickathrift was his informant, for the squire was very stern and silent, and Mr Marston was in one of the other boats, which were manned by drain-men and farm-labourers, and had for leaders Farmer Tallington and the engineer, while many were armed with muskets.
“Is Tom there?” said Dick in a whisper.
“Ay, lad, he’s theer,” said the big wheelwright, “along o’ Mr Marston.”
And then in answer to questions he related that Mr Marston had been over at the Toft, and stopped up watching with the squire for Dick’s return, dropping asleep at last, and then awakening suddenly to hear a strange noise among the fowls.
The squire went out, followed by Mr Marston, and the truth was before them.
“The big stack was afire!” whispered Hickathrift, “and burning so as they knew it would be impossible to put it out, and just as they realised the terrible state of affairs there was the sound of a shot, and then of another and another from somewhere down among the cottages, and directly after the beating of feet, and a party of the labourers hurried up, startled from their beds.
“‘Your turn now, squire,’ I says to him,” whispered the wheelwright.
“‘Ay,’ he says, ‘my turn now. Who fired that shot?’
“‘Oh! some un here,’ I says. ‘We thought we seed him as did it going off in the poont, but it was so dark we couldn’t be sure.’
“Squire didn’t ask no more, for there was too much to do getting out your moother, lad, and trying to save the furnitur, ’sides throwing watter on the fire.
“Bud, theer, it warn’t no use. Plaäce burned like a bit o’ paäper, and we could do nowt bud save the best o’ the things.”
“Did you save the clock?” asked Dick.
“Ay, lad, I carried it out mysen, just as Mr Marston come oop wi’ a lot of his lads, and Farmer Tallington come from t’other way; and we saved all we could, and got out the beasts and horses, but t’owd plaäce is bont out.”
“And where is mother?”
“All reight along o’ my missus, bless her; and when we see we could do no more, squire began about who done it.”
“Yes: go on.”
“Well, theer’s nowt much to say, lad, only that soon as squire knowd who it weer he—”
“But how did he know who it was?” cried Dick.
“Some un towd him.”
“Yes, but who told?”
“Him as fired his goon at him when he see’d him by the light o’ the fire poling along in his poont.”
“And who was that?”
“Nay, lad, I’m not going to tell thee. Some un as thowt he desarved a shot for setting fire to folks’s houses and shooting honest men. Some folk don’t stop to think. If they’ve got goons in their hands, and sees varmen running away, they oops wi’ the goon and shutes, and that’s what some un did. Thou’lt know who it weer one day.”
“And he told my father?”
“It weer our Jacob towd squire. He sin his faäce quite plain, and that it weer Dave.”
“Now, Marston, where for next?” shouted the squire, after taking a long look round over the open water, now illumined by the sun.
“Try that island yonder,” was the reply. “There’s a hut among the low fir-trees, and I fancy it is his making.”
The boats were turned in the suggested direction, and Dick felt a curious sensation of nervous dread stealing over him as he thought of seeing that hut not long before, and of how likely it was that Mr Marston was right.
A strange sense of shock and horror came over Dick as he now seemed to realise, for the first time, that he was one of a party engaged in hunting down Dave Gittan, the man who had always been to him as a friend, the companion of endless excursions over the mere; and his heart sank within him as he glanced round in search of an opportunity to land and get away from the horrible pursuit.
But there was no escape, for he knew that the pursuers would not turn backward, and he glanced helplessly at where he could see Tom Tallington’s face in the farther of the other boats, and responded to his wave of the hand.
There was a stern relentless look in every face he saw, and he thought of how his father and Mr Marston had been shot, how first one and then another had been nearly burned in his bed, while their property was destroyed, and he felt the justice of the severe looks. But all the same there was a lingering liking for Dave, and he felt disposed to stand up in his defence and say it was impossible that he could have done these things, though all the time, as he ran over the matters in his mind, he began to recall various suspicious incidents, and to think that, perhaps, they were right.
One thing buoyed him up though, and that was the thought that they were not going straight to the decoy-man’s hut, and perhaps through this delay he might escape.
It was a vain hope, one which was swept away directly after, for Hickathrift whispered:
“We went straight to his plaäce to try and ketch him, but he slipped away in his poont, and dodged us about in the dark, till Mester Marston held out that he was makking for the far part of the fen, and we followed him theer, but lost all sound on him, and then you know, Mester Dick, we fun you.”
With a stern effort to be firm Dick watched the progress of the punt toward the island that was to have been his abode when he felt huffed at home, and wondered whether Dave were there now.
“He isn’t there,” thought Dick; and he turned to telegraph a look at Tom Tallington, who he felt sure would be as anxious as himself about Dave’s escape.
“Do you want Tom Tallington?” said his father, who, though apparently paying no attention, had noted every exchange of glances.
“Yes, father; there is more room here,” said Dick boldly.
The squire made a sign to Hickathrift, who ceased poling, and the other two boats came up on either side.
“Come in here, Tom,” said Dick eagerly.
Tom obeyed with alacrity and stepped on board, while in short decisive tones the squire spoke:
“We will divide now, and approach on three sides. You, Marston, and you, Tallington, get well over so as to command a view all round, for this man must not escape.”
“Escape! No!” said Farmer Tallington fiercely.
“If he is there, I don’t think he will escape,” said Mr Marston sternly.
“Hah!” ejaculated the squire; “that is one reason why I waited for you both to come up. Now, gentlemen, and you, my good fellows, listen. There must be no violence.”
“No violence, eh!” said Farmer Tallington. “Didn’t he bon my place?”
“And shoot me?” said Mr Marston sternly.
“Yes, and his is evidently the hand which has committed a score of outrages, but all the same we must act as if we were the officers of the law: seize, bind, and hand him over to justice unhurt.”
There was a low murmur from the drain-men in Mr Marston’s boat.
“Yes, and that is why I speak,” said the squire firmly. “I am leader here, and I insist upon this man being taken uninjured. Let the law deal with him. It is not our duty to punish him for the crimes.”
There was another low murmur here, but the squire paid no heed and went on:
“In the first place, not a shot is to be fired.”
“Not if he shutes at us?” cried Farmer Tallington.
“No: not even if he fires at any of us. If he should draw trigger, rush in and seize him before he has time to reload, and then, with no more violence than is necessary, let him be bound.”
“Well,” said Farmer Tallington, “perhaps you’re reight neighbour; and as long as he is punished I don’t know as I mind much how it’s done.”
“Then we all understand each other, and you, my men, I shall hold you answerable for any injury this man receives.”
“What! Mayn’t us knock him down, squire?” grumbled the big wheelwright.
“Of course you may, Hickathrift. Stun him if you like; he will be the easier to bind.”
“Hey, that’s better, lads,” cried the wheelwright, brightening up. “Squire’s talking sense now.”
“But he’ll shoot his sen oop in yon hut, squire, and fire at us and bring us down.”
“There will only be time for one shot, Mr Tallington,” said Marston quietly, “and we can fetch him out before he has a chance to reload. Mr Winthorpe is right.”
“Oh well, I wean’t stick out,” said the farmer rather sulkily; “but Dave’s a rare good shot and one of us will hev to go home flat on his back before we get up to yon wood.”
“He will not dare to fire,” said the squire firmly.
“I do not agree with you, Mr Winthorpe,” said Marston. “The man is desperate, and he will do anything now to escape.”
“And if he can’t,” cried Farmer Tallington, “he’ll die like a rat in a corner, biting, so look out. He’s got that long gun of his loaded and ready for the first man who goes up to yon hut, and that man arn’t me.”
“I will go up first,” said the squire quietly; “and he will not dare to fire.”
“Bud he hev dared to fire, mester,” said the wheelwright.
“Yes, at those who did not see him lurking in some hiding-place, but he will not dare to fire now.”
“He can’t fire, father,” cried Dick excitedly.
“Why?”
“Because I have his gun here in the boat.”
“What?” cried the squire; and the matter was explained.
There was no further hesitation. The boats divided as if going to the attack upon some fort, and after giving the others time to get well on either side of the island, the squire gave Hickathrift orders to go on, and the punt glided swiftly toward the shore.
“You two boys lie down in the bottom of the boat,” said the squire.
“Oh, father!” exclaimed Dick, as Tom slowly obeyed.
“What is it, Dick?”
“It seems so cowardly.”
“It is more cowardly to risk life unnecessarily for the sake of bravado,” said his father; and then, reading the look upon his son’s face, the squire continued with a sad smile:
“I am captain of this little expedition, Dick, and the captain must lead.”
Dick never felt half so much inclined to disobey his father before, as he slowly took his place in the bottom of the punt, while Hickathrift sent it forward so quickly that it was the first to touch the gravelly shore. When the squire sprang out Hickathrift followed him, after driving down the pole and securing the boat.
“I say, Tom,” said Dick.
“I say, Dick,” replied Tom.
“Do you think he would be very cross if we went after them? I do want to see.”
Tom shook his head, and, landing, sat down on the edge of the boat, Dick following and seating himself beside his companion, to watch his father steadily approach the hut, of which not so much as a glimpse could be obtained, so closely was it hidden among the trees.
By this time the squire was half-way to the fir-wood, and Dick could bear it no longer.
“How could I meet mother,” he cried angrily, “if I let him go alone like that?”
“But he can’t be shot,” said Tom.
“No, but he may be hurt,” retorted Dick; and he ran eagerly after his father.
“And so may my father be hurt,” said Tom as soon as he was left alone; and he looked in the direction by which Farmer Tallington must approach the wood, but no one was visible there, and he ran rapidly after his companion and rejoined him just as he was following his father into the wood.
The morning sun shone brilliantly without, but as soon as they were in the wood they seemed to have entered upon a dusky twilight, cut here and there by brilliant shafts and bands which struck the ground in places and made broad patches of golden hue.
No word was spoken, and in the dim wood with the rustling increasing, the scene in some way suggested to Dick the fen during the night when he was listening to the passing of the punt—evidently Dave’s—and he fell a-wondering whether the decoy-man was now far away on the other side of the mere.
“That you, squire?” shouted Farmer Tallington from the trees beyond the hut, which now appeared before them, sombre and gloomy, half hidden by the growth.
“Yes, we are here,” was the reply.
“He’s in here some’ere’s, for his poont’s ashore.”
“Where are you?” came from the other side, and, guided by the voices, Marston soon came up, with his men.
The squire gave a short sharp order, and the two parties separated, so as to surround the little hut. Tom whispered to Dick what he was already thinking.
“Why, Dick, old Dave’s as cunning as a rat, and could slip through there easy.”
The moment the place was surrounded the squire gave a sharp glance back at his son, stepped forward, stooped down, and entered the low hut.
Hickathrift was close behind him, and the next moment he, too, had disappeared.
“Is he there, Mr Winthorpe?” cried Marston excitedly; and he, too, stepped forward and entered the hut.
“Why, what’s it all mean?” said Farmer Tallington impatiently; and he, too, stepped up to the low doorway and entered.
“They’re tying his hands and feet, Tom,” whispered Dick excitedly; and unable to control himself he ran up to the door, followed by his schoolmate, but as he did so it was to encounter the squire coming out with a peculiarly solemn look upon his countenance.
“Isn’t he there, father?” cried Dick wonderingly.
“Yes, boy—no,” said the squire solemnly, as the others came slowly out. “He managed to crawl here to die.”
Chapter Twenty Seven.
Last Words.
It was a solemn party that returned to the Toft that day: three boats, with the last propelled by Hickathrift, towing another behind. That last punt was Dave Gittan’s, and in it, later on, the man was taken to his last resting-place.
At the inquiry it was found that Dave had been mortally wounded by a bullet; and in this state he had managed to force his boat to his hut, and when pursued, to his lurking-place in the farther part of the fen, to lie down and die.
Who fired the shot which took his life? No one could say. Five bullets were sent winging to stop his career on the night of his last insane act, when pretty well everything which would burn upon the Toft was destroyed; but whose was the hand which pulled the trigger, and whose the eye which took the aim, was not divulged.
Dave had well kept his secret, and struggled hard to stay the advance of progress, but fought in vain, and with his fall almost the last opposition to the making of the great drain died out.
There were old fen-men who murmured and declared that the place was being destroyed, but for the most part they lived to see that great drain and others made, and the wild morass become dry land upon which the plough turned up the black soil and the harrow smoothed, and great waving crops of corn took the place of those of reed. Meadows, too, spread out around the Toft, and Farmer Tallington’s home at Grimsey—meads upon which pastured fine cattle; while in that part of the wide fen-land ague nearly died away.
It was one evening twenty years later that a couple of stalwart well-dressed men, engineers engaged upon the cutting of another lode or drain many miles to the north, strolled down from the Toft farm to have a chat with the great grey-haired wheelwright, who carried on a large business now that a village had sprung up in the fen.
His delight was extreme to see the visitors, and they had hard work to extricate their ringers from his grip.
“Think of you two coming to see me now! It caps owt.”
“Why, of course we’ve come to see you, Hicky,” said the taller of the two. “How well you look!”
“Well! Hearty, Mester Dick, bless you! and the missus too. Hearty as the squire and his lady, bless ’em. But your father looks sadly, Mester Tom, sir. He don’t wear as I should like to see un. He’s wankle.” (Sickly.)
“Rheumatism, Hicky; that’s all. He’ll be better soon. I say, what’s that—a summer-house?” said Tom, pointing.
“That, Mester Tom! Why, you know?”
“Why, it’s the old punt!” cried Dick.
“Ay, it’s the owd poont, Mester Dick. What games yow did hev in her too, eh?”
“Yes, Hicky,” said Dick with a sigh. “Ah! those were happy days.”
“They weer, lad; they weer. Owd poont got dry and cracked, and of no use bud to go on the dreern, and who wanted to go on a dreern as had been used to the mere?”
“No one, of course,” said Dick, gazing across the fields and meadows where he had once propelled the punt.
“Ay, no one, o’ course, so Jacob sawed her i’ two one day, and we set her oop theer i’ the garden for a summer-hoose, and Jacob painted her green. I say, Mester Dick, ony think,” added Hickathrift, laughing violently.
“Think what? Don’t laugh like that, Hicky, or you’ll shake your head off.”
“Nay, not I, my lad; but it do mak’ me laugh.”
“What does?”
“Jacob’s married!”
“No!”
“He is, Mester Dick, and theer’s a babby.”
“Never!” said Dick, laughing, to humour the great fellow, who wiped his eyes and became quite solemn now.
“Yes, that he hes, Mester Dick, and you’d nivver guess what he’s ca’d him.”
“Jacob, of course.”
“Nay, Mester Dick; he’s ca’d him Dave.”
Dick and Tom went down to the wheelwright’s again next day to chat over old times—fishing, shooting, the netting at the decoy, and the like; and heard how John Warren had lately died, a venerable old man, who confessed at last how he had helped Dave Gittan in some of the outrages when the drain was made, because he hated it, and said it would ruin honest men.
But it was not to see John Warren’s nor Dave Gittan’s grave that Hickathrift led the young men to the one bit of waste land left, and there pointed to a wooden tablet nailed against a willow tree.
“The squire give me leave, Mester Dick, and Jacob and me buried him theer when he died. Jacob painted his name on it, rather rough, but the best he could, and we’d hev put his age on it, as well as the date, if we’d ha’ known.”
“How old was he, do you think, Hicky?” said Dick.
“Don’t know, sir, but straänge and old.”
“But why did you take so much interest in him? You never liked the donkey.”
“Nay, bud you did, lad, and that was enough for me.”
“Poor old Solomon!” said Dick, smiling at the recollections the rough tablet evoked; “how he could kick!”
“And so you and young Tom—I beg pardon, sir,” said Hicky, “Mester Tallington—are going to help Mester Marston wi the big dreerning out in Cambridgeshire, eh?”
“Yes, Hicky, ours is a busy life now; but we’re beginning to find people more sensible about such matters. Mr Marston was laughing over it the other day, and saying that all the romance had gone out of our profession now there was no chance of getting shot.”
“Weer he, now?” said Hickathrift wonderingly. “Think of a man liking to be shot at!”
“Oh, he does not like to be shot at, Hicky! By the way, though, who was it shot Dave Gittan? Come, now, you know.”
“Owd Dave Gittan’s been buried twenty year, Mester Dick, so let him rest.”
“Rest! Of course; but come—you do know?”
“Yes, Mester Dick,” said the wheelwright stolidly. “I do know, but I sweered as I’d nivver tell, and I’ll keep my word.”
“Ah, well, I will not press you, Hicky! It was a sad time.”
“Ay, my lads, a sad time when a man maks war like that again his brothers wi’ fire and sword, leastwise wi’ goon. That theer fen was like a battlefield in them days, while now it’s as pleasant a place to look upon as a man need wish to see.”
“A lovely landscape, Hicky,” said Dick, gazing across the verdant plain.
“Ay, lad, and once all bog and watter, and hardly a tree from end to end.”
“A great change, Hicky, showing what man can do.”
“Ay, a great change, Mester Dick, but somehow theer are times when I get longing for the black watter and the wild birds, and all as it used to be.”
“Yes, Hicky,” said Dick almost sadly as he saw in memory’s mirror the days of his boyhood; “but this is a world of change, man; we must look forward and not back.”
“Ay, Mester, Dick, ’cause all’s for the best.”
“Yes, Hicky, keep to that—all’s for the best! Come, Tom; it’s time we said good-bye to the old fen!”