Beaten down by this torrent of speech, the Squire waved his hand for silence, and said, with surly resignation: “Oh, well, then, the Thistle. Who is it has bespoke the Rose, drat ’em?”
“Mr. Foxwell, your Worship, a neighbour of yours, sir, if I may say so.”
The Squire gave a start, and the cloud on his brow deepened. “Foxwell!” he echoed. “A neighbour of mine!—H’m! Yes, there is a gentleman of that name living in my part of the county.” With a parenthetic “More’s the pity!” under his breath, he added, in a kind of dogged, grumbling way, “What the deuce is he dining here for?”
“Why, sir, he’s been to the South to fetch his niece home to Foxwell Court, and they’re coming in a po’shay, and stopping here for dinner. He sent his man Caleb ahead on horseback to order it cooked, so they shouldn’t be delayed, for they have eight bad miles yet from here to Foxwell Court.”
“Ecod!” said Squire Thornby, “I have the same bad miles to Thornby Hall—or five o’ them, at least,—and I ordered a cold dinner so _I_ shouldn’t be delayed. But, damn it, now I come to think on’t, I’ll have something cooked, so I will! I presume my belly is as much to me as Mr. Foxwell’s is to him. I don’t see why I should eat cold while he eats hot. Have you got anything on the fire, Mrs. Betteridge?”
He strode into the kitchen to see for himself, followed by the landlady.
“’Tis what Mr. Foxwell ordered, your Worship.”
“I might ’a’ known it! The leg o’ lamb, too, I suppose. Everything for Foxwell. Does the man think nobody else has a soul to save?”
“The leg o’ lamb isn’t his, sir. ’Tis roasting so as to be ready against the stage-coach arrives.”
“Then I’ll have the best cut o’ that. First come, first served:—let the stage-coach passengers take what’s left. A beggarly lot, or they’d have coaches o’ their own to ride in. And send up a bottle o’ the best wine you’ve got in the house. I’ll dine as well as Mr. Foxwell, rat him!”
Leaving Mrs. Betteridge to put his orders into execution, he went out to the passage and called his man Bartholomew, to whom he communicated his intentions.
“Very good, your Worship,” said Bartholomew, in the manner of a servant somewhat privileged. He was a lean, hardy fellow, of his master’s own age, with a long, astute-looking countenance. “I see Mr. Foxwell’s man Caleb in the yard, sir.”