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made in the field where a great battle was to be fought.
He went on at daylight, and going through a village at high noon saw a preacher in clipped hair and sober garb, who was
calling on the people to be valiant and of good courage against those wicked men who had incited riot and rebellion among
the Roman Catholics in Ireland, whereby the King might find pretext for raising a vast army to devastate and enslave
England. Sorely perplexed by this talk, of which he understood little, Phil besought a sneering young fellow, who stood at no
great distance, for an explanation; to which the fellow replied that it was talk for them that wore short hair and long ears, and
that unless a man kept watch upon his wits his own ears would grow as long from hearing it as those of any Roundhead ass in
the country. At this Phil took umbrage; but the fellow cried Nay, that he would fight no such keen blade, who was, it seemed,
a better man that he looked. And with a laugh he waved the matter off and strolled away.
So to the inn Phil came in due time, having meditated much, meanwhile, on the talk of the King and war and the rights of
Parliament, which was in the mouths and ears of all men. But he put such things out of his mind when at last he saw the inn,
for the moment was at hand when his dreams should come true and he should find waiting for him the Nell Entick he
remembered from long ago.
Surely a lad of enterprise, who had ventured the world over with pirates, could find in any English village something to which
he could turn his hand. Indeed, who knew but some day he might keep the inn himself--or do better? Who knew? He
remembered Little Grimsby and drew a long breath. Caught in a whirl of excitement that set the blood drumming in his ears,
he strode into the house and, boldly stepping up to the public bar, called loudly, "Holla, I say! I would have speech of
Mistress Nell Entick."
From a tall settle in the corner, where he sat taking tobacco, there rose a huge man with red and angry face.
"Who in the Devil's name art thou," he roared, "that comes ranting into an honest house and bawls out thus the name of
Mistress Nell Entick!"
There were as usual a couple of countrymen sitting with pots of ale, who reared their heads in vast amazement, and in the
noisy kitchen down the passage a perceptible hush followed the loud words. The house seemed to pause and listen; the
countrymen set down their pots; there was a sound of creaking hinges and of lightly falling feet.
Very coolly, smiling slightly, Philip Marsham met the eyes of the big, red-faced man. "It seems," said he, "thou an riding for
another fall."
A look of recognition, at first incredulous, then profoundly displeased, dawned on the red face and even greater anger
followed.
"Thou banging, basting, broiling brogger!" he thundered. "Thou ill-contrived, filthy villain! Out the door! Begone! "
"It seems, Jamie Barwick, that thy wits are struck with years. Have care. Thy brother is already on the road to Wapping --
they have signed and sealed his passage."
The fat man came to Phil with the slow gait and the low-hung- head of a surly dog. I-le thrust his red face close to Phil's own.
"Yea, it is thou," he sneered. "I am minded to beat thee and bang thee till thou goest skulking under the hedges for cover. But
it seems thou hast good news. What is this talk of the hangman's budget'"
"It is true. By now thine excellent brother hath in all likelihood donned the black cap and danced on air. As for beating and
banging -- scratch thy head and agitate thy memory and consider if I have given thee reason to hope for quietness and
submission."
There was a flicker of doubt in the man's small eyes, whereby it seemed his memory served him well.
"And what meanest thou by saying thou would'st have speech of Mistress Nell Entick?" he asked suspiciously.
"That concerns thee not."
"Ha!" He scowled darkly. "Methinks it concerns me nearly! "
And then a high voice cried, "Who called my name'" They turned and Phil Marsham's face lighted, for she stood in the door.
She was not so fair as he had pictured her-- what lad's memory will not play such tricks as that' -- and he thought that when he
had taken her away from the inn she need never again wear a drabbled gown. But it was she, the Nell Entick who had so
lightly given him her promise and kissed him as he fled, and he had come for her.
"Back again, John~ Nay, John was not thy name. Stay! No, it hath escaped me, but I remember well thy face. And shall I
bring thee ale? Or sack? We have some rare fine sack."
He stared at her as if he could not believe his ears had told him right. "I have come," he said, "to claim a certain promise --"
She looked bewildered, puzzled, then laughed loudly. "Silly boy!" she cried. "I am these six months a wife."
"A wife! "
"Yea, and mine," cried Barwick. "Come, begone! I ll have no puppies sniffling at her heels."
At something in the man's manner, the full truth dawned on Philip Marsham. "I see. And you have taken the inn?"
"Yea, that I have! Must I split thy head to let in knowledge? Begone!"
She laid her hand on Barwick's wrist. "The lad means no harm," she whispered. "Come, it is folly to drive trade away." And
over Barwick's shoulder she cast Phil such a glance that he knew, maid or matron, she would philander still.
But Phil had seen her with new eyes and the old charm was broken. (Perhaps if Tom Marsham had waited a year before he
leaped into marriage, I had had no story to tell!) All that was best in the father had come down to the son, and Phil turned his
back on the siren with the bold, bright eyes. He turned his back on the inn, too, and all the dreams he had built around it--a
boy's Imaginings raised on the sands of a moment's fancy. Nay, he turned his back on all the world he had hitherto known.
With a feeling that he was rubbing from his face a spider's web of sordidness-- that he was cutting the last cord that bound
him to his old, wild life -- stirred by a new and daring project, he went out of the inn and turned to the left and took the road
in search of Sir John Bristol.
CHAPTER XXIII
And Old Sir John
SIR JOHN BRISTOL! There, gentlemen, was a brave, honest man! A man of spirit and of a crossed him, if you toyed with
him, his mirth was rough, his hand was hard, he was relentless as iron. But for a man who stood his ground and fought a bold
fight and met squarely the old man's eyes, there was nothing Sir John would not do.
After all his weary travels by land and sea, Philip Marsham had at last come back to find a man whom he had seen but once
and for a brief time. Yet in that man he had such complete confidence as he had never had in any other, and since Jamie
Barwick had left the man's service and taken the inn -- who knew'
Striding over the same rolling count~ road that he had tramped with Martin long before, and coming soon to the park, he
skirted it and pressed on, keeping meanwhile his eyes and wits about him, until he perceived a gate and a porter's lodge. He
went to the gate and finding it ajar slipped through and made haste up a long avenue with overarching trees. A man from the
lodge came out and angrily called after the intruder, but Phil never looked back. The avenue turned to the left and he saw at a
distance the great house; he was of no mind to suffer hindrance or delay.
The sunset sky threw long, still shadows across the grass, and countless wandering branches of ivy lay like a dark drapery
upon the grey walls of the old house. A huge dog came bounding and roaring down the avenue, but when the lad smiled
without fear and reached a friendly hand toward him, the beast stopped clamouring and came quietly to heel. Lights shone
from the windows and softly on the still evening air the thin, sweet music of a virginal stole over the broad terraces and
lawns.
The clamour of the dog, it seemed, had attracted the attention of those within, for a grey-haired servant met the stranger in the
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