“That will suit me very well,” answered Bluett.
“An’ I ax you to back me up an’ protect me henceforth in the King’s name,” continued Johnny. “To think of a man as would wallop an old blid like me! No better’n a murderer—there he is now! Doan’t you go away from me till he’ve passed us by.”
Jonathan Godbeer walked along the quay to the boats. He scowled at old Cramphorn and touched his hat to the officer.
“Marnin’, sir! I see thicky old rat have got ’e by the ear. I thrashed un last night, ancient though he be, for calling me a smuggler afore the company; an’ I’ll thrash un every time he dares to do the like. Take care how you put your trust in him, for the Faither of Lies be a fule to that man. He never done nobody a gude turn in’s life; though he’ll get a gude turn yet hisself when the cart goes from under him an’ leaves him dancin’ ’pon a rope. I warn ’e against un for all his white beard!”
Jonathan grinned at his own prophecy and departed; Cramphorn shook his fist and chattered curses; and Mr. Bluett went upon this way. He was puzzled but not ill-pleased.
“When thieves fall out, honest men come by theer own,” he reflected, and returned to breakfast.
Jenifer Pearn waited upon him at his meal and took occasion to give Mr. Bluett yet another version of the brawl that had troubled his slumbers over night; but as she loved Merry Jonathan, her story redounded little to the smuggler’s discredit.
“They all want to be your friends,” she explained; “but, except my Jonathan, theer ban’t a pin to choose among ’em. He’m honest as daylight.”
Mr. Bluett thereupon changed the subject and trusted that Jenifer was none the worse for her fright. The girl had a dark, keen face, was built generously and evidently enjoyed unusual physical strength for a woman. Yet the old sailor recollected that she had been no more than a pleasant armful for her future husband.
“I be well again,” she said, “yet I wish I hadn’t seen no such dreadful contrivance, I’m sure. ’Tis a very sad thing, an’ mother sez how Parson Yates did ought to be axed to faace they phantoms in the name of the Lord wi’ a bell, a book an’ a cannel, ’cordin’ to the right an’ holy way in such matters. But Gran’faither Newte an’ Toby Pearn, my great-uncle, an’ a gude few other auld parties say that Lady Emma’s funeral be the chiefest glory of Daleham an’ ’twould be a thousand pities to go an’ lay it wi’ a bit of parson’s work.”