Loe raamatut: «Jack Hinton: The Guardsman», lehekülg 25

After a few words from the priest, two of the party took their spades from the car, and began digging the grave; while Father Loftus, leading the other aside, talked to him for some time.

‘Begorra,’ said the old man, as he shovelled the earth to either side, ‘Father Tom isn’t like himself, at all, at all. He used to have pity and the kind word for the poor when they were turned out on the world to starve, without as much as a sheaf of straw to lie upon, or potatoes enough for the children to eat.’

‘Whisht, father! or the priest will hear ye,’ said the younger one, looking cautiously around.

‘Sorrow bit o’ me cares if he does! it’s thruth I’m telling. You are not long in these parts, sir, av I may make so bowld?’

‘No,’ said I, ‘I’m quite a stranger.’

‘Well, anyhow, ye may understand that this isn’t a fine soil for a potato-garden; and yet the devil a other poor Shaun had since they turned him out on the road last Michaelmas Day, himself and his wife and the little gossoon – the only one they had, too – with a fever and ague upon him. The poor child, however, didn’t feel it long, for he died in ten days after. Well, well! the way of God there’s no saying against it. But, sure, if the little boy didn’t die Shaun was off to America; for he tuk his passage, and got a sea-chest of a friend, and was all ready to go. But you see, when the child died, he could not bring himself to leave the grave; and there he used to go and spend half of his days fixing it, and settling the sods about it, and wouldn’t take a day’s work from any of the neighbours. And at last he went off one night, and we never knew what was become of him, till a pedlar brought word that he and Mary was living in the Cluan Beg, away from everybody, without a friend to say “God save you!” It’s deep enough now, Mickey; there’s nobody will turn him out of this. And so, sir, he might have lived for many a year; but when he heerd that the boys was up, and going to settle a reckoning with Mr. Tarleton – ’

‘Come, you,’ cried the priest, who joined us at the moment, and who I could perceive was evidently displeased at the old man’s communicativeness – ‘come, you, the sooner you all get back the better. We must look after Mary, too; for God knows where she is wandering. And now let us put the poor boy in the earth.’

With slow and sullen steps the old man entered the house, followed by the others. I did not accompany them, but stood beside the grave, my mind full of all I heard. In a few minutes they returned, carrying the coffin, one corner of which was borne by the priest himself. Their heads were bare, and their features were pale and care-worn. They placed the body in the grave, and gazed down after it for some seconds. The priest spoke a few words in a low, broken voice, the very sounds of which, though their meaning was unknown to me, sank deep into my heart. He whispered for an instant to one of the young men, who went into the cabin and speedily returned, carrying with him some of the clothes of the deceased and the old carbine that lay beneath the bed.

‘Throw them in the grave, Mickey – throw them in,’ said the priest. ‘Where’s his coat?’

‘It isn’t there, sir,’ said the man. ‘That’s everything that has a mark of blood upon it.’

‘Give me that gun,’ cried the priest; and at the same moment he took the carbine by the end of the barrel, and by one stroke of his strong foot snapped it at the breech. ‘My curse be on you!’ said he, as he kicked the fragments into the grave; ‘there was peace and happiness in the land before men knew ye, and owned ye! Ah, Hugh,’ said he, turning his eyes fiercely on the old man, ‘I never said ye hadn’t griefs and trials, and sore ones too, some of them; but God help you, if you think that an easy conscience and a happy home can be bought by murder.’ The old man started at the words, and as his dark brow lowered and his lip trembled, I drew near to the priest, fearful lest an attack might be made on him. ‘Ay, murder, boys! that’s the word, and no less. Don’t tell me about righting yourselves, and blood for blood, and all that. There’s a curse upon the land where these things happen, and the earth is not lucky that is moistened with the blood of God’s creatures.’

‘Cover him up! cover him up!’ said the old man, shovelling in the earth so as to drown the priest’s words, ‘and let us be going. We ought to be back by six o’clock, unless,’ added he with a sarcastic bitterness that made him look like a fiend – ‘unless your reverence is going to set the police on our track.’

‘God forgive you, Hugh, and turn your heart,’ said the priest, as he shook his outstretched hands at the old man. As the father spoke these words he took me by the arm, and led me within the house. I could feel his hand tremble as it leaned upon me, and the big tears rolled down his cheeks in silence.

We sat down in the little cabin, but neither of us spoke. After some time we heard the noise of the cartwheels and the sound of voices, which grew fainter and fainter as they passed up the glen, and at length all became still.

‘And the poor wife,’ said I, ‘what, think you, has become of her?’

‘Gone home to her people, most likely,’ answered the priest. ‘Her misfortunes will make her a home in every cabin. None so poor, none so wretched, as not to succour and shelter her. But let us hence.’

We walked forth from the hovel, and the priest closing the door after him fastened it with a padlock that he had found within, and then, placing the key upon the door-sill, he turned to depart; but suddenly stopping, he took my hand in both of his, and said, in a voice of touching earnestness —

‘This has been a sad scene. Would to God you had not witnessed it! Would to God, rather, that it might not have occurred! But promise me, on the faith of a man of honour and the word of a gentleman, that what you have seen this night you will reveal to no man, until I have passed away myself, and stand before that judgment to which we all are coming.’

‘I promise you faithfully,’ said I. ‘And now let us leave a spot that has thrown a gloom upon my heart which a long life will never obliterate.’

CHAPTER XXXV. THE JOURNEY

As we issued from the glen the country became more open; patches of cultivation presented themselves, and an air of comfort and condition superior to what we had hitherto seen was observable in the dwellings of the country-people. The road lead through a broad valley bounded on one side by a chain of lofty mountains, and on the other separated by the Shannon from the swelling hills of Munster. Deeply engaged in our thoughts, we travelled along for some miles without speaking. The scene we had witnessed was of that kind that seemed to forbid our recurrence to it, save in our own gloomy reflections. We had not gone far when the noise of horsemen on the road behind us induced us to turn our heads. They came along at a sharp trot, and we could soon perceive that although the two or three foremost were civilians, they who followed were dragoons. I thought I saw the priest change colour as the clank of the accoutrements struck upon his ear. I had, however, but little time for the observation, as the party soon overtook us.

‘You are early on the road, gentlemen,’ said a strong, powerfully-built man, who, mounted upon a grey horse of great bone and action, rode close up beside us.

‘Ah, Sir Thomas, is it you?’ said the priest, affecting at once his former easy and indifferent manner. ‘I’d rather see the hounds at your back than those beagles of King George there. Is there anything wrong in the country?’

‘Let me ask you another question,’ said the knight in answer. ‘How long have you been in it, and where did you pass the night, not to hear of what has occurred?’

‘‘Faith, a home question,’ said the priest, summoning up a hearty laugh to conceal his emotion; ‘but if the truth must out, we came round by the priory at Glenduff, as my friend here being an Englishman – may I beg to present him to you? Mr. Hinton, Sir Thomas Garland – he heard wonders of the monks’ way of living up there, and I wished to let him judge for himself.’

‘Ah, that accounts for it,’ said the tall man to himself. ‘We have had a sad affair of it, Father Tom. Poor Tarleton has been murdered.’

‘Murdered!’ said the priest, with an expression of horror in his countenance I could scarcely believe feigned.

‘Yes, murdered! The house was attacked a little after midnight. The party must have been a large one, for while they forced in the hall door, the haggard and the stables were seen in a blaze. Poor George had just retired to bed, a little later than usual; for his sons had returned a few hours before from Dublin, where they had been to attend their college examination. The villains, however, knew the house well, and made straight for his room. He got up in an instant, and seizing a sabre that hung beside his bed, defended himself, with the courage of desperation, against them all. The scuffle and the noise soon brought his sons to the spot, who, although mere boys, behaved in the most gallant manner. Overpowered at last by numbers, and covered with wounds, they dragged poor Tarleton downstairs, shouting out as they went, “Bring him down to Freney’s! Let the bloody villain see the black walls and the cold hearth he has made, before he dies!” It was their intention to murder him on the spot where, a few weeks before, a distress for rent had been executed against some of his tenants. He grasped the banisters with a despairing clutch, while fixing his eyes upon his servant, who had lived with him for some years past, he called out to him in his agony to save him; but the fellow came deliberately forward and held the flame of a candle beneath the dying man’s fingers, until he relaxed his hold and fell back among his murderers. Yes, yes, father, Henry Tarleton saw it with his own eyes, for while his brother was stretched senseless on the floor, he was struggling with the others at the head of the staircase; and, strange enough too, they never hurt the boys, but when they had wreaked their vengeance on the father, bound them back to back, and left them.’

‘Can you identify any of them?’ said the priest, with intense emotion in his voice and manner.

‘Scarcely, I fear; their faces were blackened, and they wore shirts over their coats. Henry thinks he could swear to two or three of the number; but our best chance of discovery lies in the fact that several of them were badly wounded, and one in particular, whom he saw cut down by his father’s sabre, was carried downstairs by his comrades, bathed in blood.’

‘He didn’t recognise him?’ said the priest eagerly.

‘No; but here comes the poor boy, so I’ll wish you good-morning.’

He put spurs to his horse as he spoke and dashed forward, followed by the dragoons; while at the same moment, on the opposite side of the road, a young man – pale, with his dress disordered, his arm in a sling – rode by. He never turned a look aside; his filmy eye was fixed, as it were, on some far-off object, and he seemed scarce to guide his horse as he galloped onward over the rugged road.

The priest relaxed his pace to permit the crowd of horsemen to pass on, while his countenance once more assumed its drooping and despondent look, and he relapsed into his former silence.

‘You see that high mountain to the left there?’ said he after a long pause. ‘Well, our road lies around the foot of it; and, please God, by to-morrow evening we ‘ll be some five-and-twenty miles on the other side, in the heart of my own wild country, with the big mountains behind you, and the great blue Atlantic rearing its frothing waves at your feet.’ He stopped for an instant, and then grasping my arm with his strong hand, continued in a low, distinct voice: ‘Never speak to me nor question me about what we saw last night, and try only to remember it as a dream. And now let me tell you how I intend to amuse you in the far west.’

Here the priest began a spirited and interesting description of the scenery and the people – their habits, their superstitions, and their pastimes. He sustained the interest of his account with legend and story, now grave, now gay – sometimes recalling a trait from the older history of the land; sometimes detailing an incident of the fair or the market, but always by his wonderful knowledge of the peasantry, their modes of thinking and reasoning, and by his imitation of their figurative and forcible expressions, able to carry me with him, whether he took the mountain’s side for his path, sat beside some cotter’s turf-fire, or skimmed along the surface of the summer sea in the frail bark of an Achill fisherman. I learned from him that in the wild region where he lived there were above fifteen thousand persons, scarce one of whom could speak or understand a word of English. Of these he was not only the priest, but the ruler and judge. Before him all their disputes were settled, all their differences reconciled. His word, in the strongest sense of the phrase, was law – not indeed to be enforced by bayonets and policemen, by constables and sheriffs’ officers, but which in its moral force demanded obedience, and would have made him who resisted it an outcast among his fellows.

‘We are poor,’ said the priest, ‘but we are happy. Crime is unknown among us, and the blood of man has not been shed in strife for fifty years within the barony. When will ye learn this in England? When will ye know that these people may be led, but never driven; that they may be persuaded, but never compelled? When will ye condescend to bend so far the prerogative of your birth, your riches, and your rank, as to reason with the poor and humble peasant that looks up to you for protection? Alas! my young friend, were you to ask me what is the great source of misery of this unhappy land, I should tell you the superior intelligence of its people. I see a smile, but hear me out. Unlike the peasantry of other countries, they are not content. Their characters are mistaken, their traits misconstrued – partly from indifference, partly from prejudice, and in a great measure because it is the fashion to recognise in the tiller of the soil a mere drudge, with scarce more intelligence than the cattle in his plough or the oxen in his team. But here you really have a people quick, sharp-sighted, and intelligent, able to scan your motives with ten times the accuracy you can guess at theirs; suspicious, because their credulity has been abused; revengeful, because their wild nature knows no other vindicator than their own right arm; lawless, for they look upon your institutions as the sources of their misery and the instruments of your tyranny towards them; reckless, for they have nothing to lose; indolent, for they have nothing to gain. Without an effort to win their confidence or secure their good-will, you overwhelm them with your institutions, cumbrous, complicated, and unsuitable; and while you neglect or despise all appeal to their feelings or affections, you place your faith in your soldiery or a special commission. Heaven help you! you may thin them off by the gallows and transportation, but the root of the evil is as far from you as ever. You do not know them, you will not know them. More prone to punish than prevent, you are satisfied with the working of the law, and not shocked with the accumulation of crime; and when, broken by poverty and paralysed by famine, a gloomy desolation spreads over the land, you meet in terms of congratulation to talk over tranquilised Ireland.’

In this strain did the good priest continue to develop his views concerning his country – the pivot of his argument being, that, to a people so essentially different in every respect, English institutions and English laws were inadequate and unsuitable. Sometimes I could not only but agree with him. At others I could but dimly perceive his meaning and dissent from the very little I could catch.

Enough of this, however. In a biography so flimsy as mine, politics would play but an unseemly part; and even were it otherwise, my opportunities were too few and my own incapacity too great to make my opinions of any value on a subject so complicated and so vast. Still, the topic served to shorten the road, and when towards evening we found ourselves in the comfortable parlour of the little inn at Ballyhocsousth,¹ so far had we both regained our spirits that once more the priest’s jovial good-humour irradiated his happy countenance; and I myself, hourly improving in health and strength, felt already the bracing influence of the mountain air, and that strong sense of liberty never more thoroughly appreciated than when regaining vigour after the sufferings of a sick-bed.

We were seated by an open window, looking out upon the landscape. It was past sunset, and the tall shadows of the mountains were meeting across the lake, like spirits who waited for the night-hour to interchange their embraces. A thin pale crescent of a new moon marked the blue sky, but did not dim the lustre of the thousand stars that glittered round it. All was hushed and still, save the deep note of the rail, or the measured plash of oars heard from a long distance. The rich meadows that sloped down to the water sent up their delicious odours in the balmy air, and there stole over the senses a kind of calm and peaceful pleasure as such a scene at such an hour can alone impart.

‘This is beautiful – this is very beautiful, father,’ said I.

‘So it is, sir,’ said the priest. ‘Let no Irishman wander for scenery; he has as much right to go travel in search of wit and good fellowship. We don’t want for blessings; all we need is, to know how to enjoy them. And, believe me, there is a plentiful feast on the table if gentlemen would only pass down the dishes. And, now, that reminds me: what are you drinking – negus? I wouldn’t wish it to my greatest enemy. But, to be sure, I am always forgetting you are not one of ourselves. There, reach me over that square decanter. It wouldn’t have been so full now if we had had poor Bob here – poor fellow! But one thing is certain – wherever he is, he is happy. I believe I never told you how he got into his present scrape.’

‘No, father; and that’s precisely the very thing I wish to ask you.’

‘You shall hear it, and it isn’t a bad story in its way. But don’t you think the night-air is a little too much for you? Shall we close the window?’

‘If it depend on me, father, pray leave it open.’

‘Ha, ha! I was forgetting again,’ said the old fellow, laughing roguishly – ‘Stella sunt amantium oculi, as Pharis says. There now, don’t be blushing, but listen to me.

‘It was somewhere about last November that Bob got a quiet hint from some one at Daly’s that the sooner he got out of Dublin the more conducive it would be to his personal freedom, as various writs were flying about the capital after him. He took the hint, and set off the same night, and reached his beautiful château of Newgate without let or molestation – which having victualled for the winter, he could, if necessary, sustain in it a reasonable siege against any force the law was likely to bring up. The house had an abundant supply of arms. There were guns that figured in ‘41, pikes that had done good service a little later, swords of every shape, from the two-handed weapon of the twelfth century to a Roman pattern made out of a scythe by a smith in the neighbourhood; but the grand terror of the country was an old four-pounder of Cromwell’s time, that the Major had mounted on the roof, and whose effects, if only proportionately injurious to the enemy to the results nearer home, must indeed have been a formidable engine, for the only time it was fired – I believe to celebrate Bob’s birthday – it knocked down a chimney with the recoil, blew the gardener and another man about ten feet into the air, and hurled Bob himself through a skylight into the housekeeper’s room. No matter for that; it had a great effect in raising the confidence of the country-people, some of whom verily believed that the ball was rolling for a week after.

‘Bob, I say, victualled the fortress; but he did more, for he assembled all the tenants, and in a short but pithy speech told them the state of his affairs, explaining with considerable eloquence what a misfortune it would be for them if by any chance they were to lose him for a landlord.

‘“See, now, boys,” said he, “there’s no knowing what misfortune wouldn’t happen ye; they’d put a receiver on the property – a spalpeen with bailiffs and constables after him – that would be making you pay up the rent, and ‘faith I wouldn’t say but maybe he ‘d ask you for the arrears.”

‘“Oh, murther, murther! did any one ever hear the like!” the people cried on every side; and Bob, like a clever orator, continued to picture forth additional miseries and misfortunes to them if such a calamitous event were to happen, explaining at the same time the contemptible nature of the persecution practised against him.

‘“No, boys,” cried he, “there isn’t a man among them all that has the courage to come down and ask for his money, face to face; but they set up a pair of fellows they call John Doe and Richard Roe – there’s names for you! Did you ever hear of a gentleman in the country with names like that? But that’s not the worst of it, for you see even these two chaps can’t be found. It’s truth I’m telling you, and some people go so far as to say that there is no such people at all, and it’s only a way they have to worry and annoy country gentlemen with what they call a fiction of the law; and my own notion is, that the law is nothing but lies and fiction from beginning to end.”

‘A very loud cheer from Bob’s audience proclaimed how perfectly they coincided in his opinion; and a keg of whisky being brought into the lawn, each man drained a glass to his health, uttering at the same time a determination with respect to the law-officers of the crown that boded but little happiness to them when they made a tour in the neighbourhood.

‘In about a week after this there was a grand drawing-home: that’s, you understand, what we call in Ireland bringing in the harvest. And sure enough, the farmyard presented a very comely sight, with ricks of hay, and stacks of corn and oats and barley, and outhouses full of potatoes, and in fact everything the country produces, besides cows and horses, sheep, pigs, goats, and even turkeys; for most of the tenants paid their rents in kind, and as Bob was an easy landlord, very few came without a little present – a game-cock, a jackass, a ram, or some amusing beast or other. Well, the next day – it was a fine dry day with a light frost, and as the bog was hard, Bob sent them all away to bring in the turf. Why, then, but it is a beautiful sight, Captain, and I wish you saw it – maybe two or three hundred cars all going as fast as they can pelt, on a fine bright day, with a blue sky and a sharp air, the boys standing up in the kishes driving without rein or halter, always at a gallop – for all the world like Ajax, Ulysses, and the rest of them that we read of; and the girls, as pretty craytures as ever you threw an eye upon, with their short red petticoats, and their hair plaited and fastened up at the back of their heads: on my conscience the Trojan women was nothing to them!

‘But to come back. Bob Mahon was coming home from the bog about five o’clock in the evening, cantering along on a little dun pony he had, thinking of nothing at all, except maybe the elegant rick of turf that he ‘d be bringing home in the morning, when what did he see before him but a troop of dragoons, and at their head old Basset, the sub-sheriff, and another fellow whose face he had often seen in the Four Courts of Dublin. “By the mortial,” said Bob, “I am done for!” for he saw in a moment that Basset had waited until all the country-people were employed at a distance, to come over and take him. However, he was no ways discouraged, but brushing his way through the dragoons, he rode up beside Basset’s gig, and taking a long pistol out of the holster, he began to examine the priming as cool as may be.

“‘How are you, Nick Basset?” said Bob; “and where are you going this evening?”

‘“How are you, Major?” said Basset, with his eye all the while upon the pistol. “It is an unpleasant business, a mighty unpleasant business to me, Major Bob,” says he; “but the truth is, there is an execution against you, and my friend here, Mr. Hennessy – Mr. Hennessy, Major Mahon – asked me to come over with him, because as I knew you – ”

‘“Well, well,” said Bob, interrupting him. “Have you a writ against me? Is it me you want?”

‘“Nothing of the kind, Major Mahon. God forbid we ‘d touch a hair of your head. It’s just a kind of a capias, as I may say, nothing more.”

‘“And why did you bring the dragoons with you?” said Bob, looking at him mighty hard.

‘Basset looked very sheepish, and didn’t know what to say; but Mahon soon relieved him —

‘“Never mind, Nick, never mind; you can’t help your trade. But how would you look if I was to raise the country on ye?”

‘“You wouldn’t do the like, Major; but surely, if you did, the troops – ”

‘“The troops!” said Bob; “God help you! we’d be twenty, ay, thirty to one. See now, if I give a whistle, this minute – ”

‘“Don’t distress yourself, Major,” said Basset, “for the decent people are a good six miles off at the bog, and couldn’t hear you if you whistled ever so loud.”

‘The moment he said this Bob saw that the old rogue was up to him, and he began to wonder within himself what was best to be done.

‘“See now, Nick,” said he, “it isn’t like a friend to bring up all these red-coats here upon me, before my tenantry, disgracing me in the face of my people. Send them back to the town, and go up yourself with Mr. Hennessy there, and do whatever you have to do.”

‘“No, no!” screamed Hennessy, “I’ll never part with the soldiers!”

‘“Very well,” said Bob, “take your own way, and see what will come of it.”

‘He put spurs to his pony as he said this, and was just striking into the gallop when Nick called out —

‘“Wait a bit, Major! wait a bit! If we leave the dragoons where we are now, will you give us your word of honour not to hurt or molest us in the discharge of our duty, nor let any one else do so?”

‘“I will,” said Bob, “now that you talk reasonably; I’ll treat you well.”

‘After a little parley it was settled that part of the dragoons were to wait on the road, and the rest of them in the lawn before the house, while Nick and his friend were to go through the ceremony of seizing Bob’s effects, and make an inventory of everything they could find.

‘“A mere matter of form, Major Mahon,” said he. “We ‘ll make it as short as possible, and leave a couple of men in possession; and as I know the affair will be arranged in a few days – ”

‘“Of course,” says Bob, laughing; “nothing easier. So come along now and let me show you the way.”

‘When they reached the house, Bob ordered up dinner at once, and behaved as politely as possible, telling them it was early, and they would have plenty of time for everything in the evening. But whether it was that they had no appetite just then, or that they were not over-easy in their minds about Bob himself, they declined everything, and began to set about their work. To it they went with pen and ink, putting down all the chairs and tables, the cracked china, the fire-irons, and at last Bob left them counting over about twenty pairs of old top-boots that stood along the wall of his dressing-room.

‘“Ned,” said Bob to his own man, “get two big padlocks and put them on the door of the hayloft as fast as you can.”

‘“Sure it is empty, sir,” said Ned. “Barrin’ the rats, there’s nothing in it.”

‘“Don’t I know that as well as you?” said Bob; “but can’t you do as you are bid? And when you’ve done it, take the pony and gallop over to the bog, and tell the people to throw the turf out of their carts and gallop up here as fast as they can.”

‘He’d scarcely said it when Nick called out, “Now, Major, for the farmyard, if you please.” And so taking Hennessy’s arm, Bob walked out, followed by the two big bailiffs, that never left them for a moment. To be sure it was a great sight when they got outside, and saw all the ricks and stacks as thick as they could stand; and so they began counting and putting them down on paper, and the devil a thing they forgot, not even the boneens and the bantams; and at last Nick fixed his eye upon the little door into the loft, upon which now two great big padlocks were hanging.

‘“I suppose it ‘s oats you have up there, Major?” said he.

‘“No, indeed,” said Bob, looking a little confused.

‘“Maybe seed-potatoes?” said Hennessy.

‘“Nor it neither,” said he.

‘“Barley, it’s likely?” cried Nick; “it is a fine dry loft.”

‘“No,” said Bob, “it is empty.”

‘And with that he endeavoured to turn them away and get them back into the house; but old Basset turned back, and fixing his eye upon the door, shook his head for a couple of minutes.

‘“Well,” said he, “for an empty loft it has the finest pair of padlocks I ever looked at. Would there be any objection, Major, to our taking a peep into it?”

‘“None,” said Bob; “but I haven’t a ladder that long in the place.”

‘“I think this might reach,” said Hennessy, as he touched one with his foot that lay close along the wall, partly covered with straw.

‘“Just the thing,” said Nick; while poor Bob hung down his head and said nothing. With that they raised the ladder and placed it against the door.

‘“Might I trouble you for the key, Major Mahon?” said Hennessy.

‘“I believe it is mislaid,” said Bob, in a kind of sulky way, at which they both grinned at each other, as much as to say, “We have him now.”

‘“You ‘‘ll not take it amiss then, Major, if we break the door?” said Nick.

‘“You may break it and be hanged!” said Bob, as he stuck his hands into his pockets and walked away.

‘“This will do,” cried one of the bailiffs, taking up a big stone as he mounted the ladder, followed by Nick, Hennessy, and the other.

‘It took some time to smash the locks, for they were both strong ones, and all the while Nick and his friend were talking together in great glee; but poor Bob stood by himself against a hayrick, looking as melancholy as might be. At last the locks gave way, and down went the door with a bang. The bailiffs stepped in, and then Nick and the other followed. It took them a couple of minutes to satisfy themselves that the loft was quite empty; but when they came back again to the door, what was their surprise to discover that Bob was carrying away the ladder upon his shoulders to a distant part of the yard.