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On the second day after Pippany Webster received his dismissal from this world at the hands of Perris, Uscroft, another small farmer of Martinsthorpe, who had given Pippany a regular job at thatching, knocked at Tibby Graddige's door, and, when she opened it, looked doubtfully at her.
"Don't ye clean up, like, for yon Pippany Webster?" he asked.
"I do what bit o' cleanin' t' man needs, mestur," answered Tibby Graddige. "It's none so much, 'cause he's one o' t' sort that likes to do things for theirsens."
"Ha'you seen aught on him this last day or two?" said Uscroft. "Yesterda' or to-day, like?"
"Yesterda' were Monday, and to-day, of course, is Tuesday," remarked Mrs. Graddige, reflectively. "No, mestur, I seen nowt on him sin' Sunday afternoon. I gen'lins go in to clear up o' Tuesdays and Fridays afternoons or nights, as the case may be. There's nowt wrong, mestur?"
Uscroft scratched his head, and put his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat.
"T' man's never been to his work either yesterda' or to-day," he answered. "I gev' him a job at thacking my stacks, and I'm afraid t' weather's goin' to break."
Mrs. Graddige looked across her garden in the direction of Pippany Webster's cottage, which stood, lonely and half derelict, higher up the side of the hill.
"Ha' you been to t' cottage then, mestur?" she asked. "He's happen been ta'en badly—not 'at I've heard owt about it. But then, ye see, mestur, nobody ever goes near him—he's such a queer 'un 'at he'll bear nobody to step inside his premises, 'ceptin' when I go to do a bit of cleanin'."
"I've been to t' place," replied Uscroft. "It's locked up, and I looked through t' front window; but I could see naught, except 'at there were no fire in t' grate."
Tibby Graddige rubbed her elbows, which she had just withdrawn from the washtub.
"Well, I'm sure I couldn't say where he is, Mestur Uscroft," she said. "Of course, he's that queer, is Pippany, 'at I should never be surprised at owt he did, in a way o' speakin'. As I say, I never set eyes on him sin' Sunday afternoon—I dropped in then when he were takin' a cup o' tea. He said naught to me about goin' away, nor nowt o' that sort. But, of course, he has relations livin' over yonder at Stone-by, and he might ha' taken it into his head to go there. I know he hasn't been to see 'em for a long time."
Uscroft turned in the direction of Mrs. Graddige's garden gate.
"Well, if ye see aught on him when he comes back," he said, "ye can just tell him 'at he needn't trouble hisself to come near my place again. I'm none goin' to hey t' likes o' him playin' fast and loose wi' me. Here's a day and a half's work lost at yon thackin'. I should ha' been seekin' him yesterday, only I were away all t' day. Ye tell him what I say, missis—I want no more on him."
"I'm sure ye don't, mestur," said Mrs. Graddige, who was always ready to agree with everybody. "Oh, I'll tell him, right enough, but he's that queer, is Pippany, 'at he doesn't care what trouble he occasions."
"Well, he'll 'casion me no more," growled Uscroft. "So ye can tell him, straight."
He went away up the lower part of the village, and, it being then eleven o'clock, turned into the Dancing Bear, at the door of which stood the cart of the itinerant vendor of fish and secret purchaser of poached rabbits. Within the kitchen the fish-man himself sat in a corner near the fire, eating bread-andcheese and pickled onions with the help of a clasp-knife; in the window-place, reading the local newspaper, sat Justice, the gamekeeper, dividing his attention between the news and a pint of ale. His dog, a wicked-looking lurcher, which bore the traces of a hard and warring life, sat with one ear cocked before the fish-man, expectant of occasional charity. Us-croft called for a drink, and, sitting down against the opposite wall, looked fixedly at the fish-man.
"Don't ye come through Stoneby on yer way here?" he asked brusquely. "It runs i' my mind 'at I've seen yer there of a mornin'."
The fish-man, whose cheeks bulged with breadand-cheese, nodded.
"That's right, sir," he said, when he had made several swallows. "I was through there this morning. It's my first stopping-place, is Stone-by."
"Ye didn't happen to see aught o' that Pippany Webster?" asked Uscroft. "Ye know him—a shammockin' sort o' chap—I've seen you talkin' to him i' this kitchen."
The fish-man dropped his eyes and inclined his face towards the table at which he sat. He lifted his mug of ale, and hid most of his countenance with it. When he set it down he had collected his ideas.. He would have been glad to have seen something of Pippany Webster, for since three o'clock on Monday morning, when Pippany should have met him with a supply of rabbits and had failed to do so, thereby causing him much inconvenience, he had been wondering where his recently-made business connection was. But his face was blank, and his eyes were innocent as he faced Uscroft and shook his head.
"No, I saw naught of no Websters," he answered. "I know the man you mean—slack-set sort o' chap, as you say. What should he be doing over at Stoneby, Mister?"
"Nay," said Uscroft indifferently, "it's naught. Only I gave t' man a job o' thackin last week, and he's never been near it neither yesterday or to-day, and a neighbour of his just said to me that he'd very like gone to Stoneby to see his rellytives; and, as ye come through there, I thought ye might ha' seen him there, in t' street or in t' public."
"No," said the fish-man. "I see naught of him at Stoneby, neither in street nor public-house."
Uscroft glanced across to the other side of the kitchen and caught the gamekeeper's eye.
"I reckon ye've seen naught of him i' yer peregrinations?" he said, with a sly movement of an eye-lid. "Ye chaps is supposed to cover a deal o' country."
"Not to look for such as him, sir," answered the gamekeeper promptly. "Something better to do than that, Mr. Uscroft."
Uscroft turned and winked at the fish-man.
"Why, I don't know, keeper," he said, with the half-sneering intonation of a man who wishes to tease another. "I don't know. I reckon yon Webster could snare a rabbit or two as well as anybody else. What do ye say, fish-seller?"
The fish-seller hastily drank what remained of his ale and rose, tightening the waist-belt of the blue-and-white apron which covered his trousers.
"I've no doubt he could, mister; I've no doubt he could," he answered. "Like a bit of nice fish leaving at your places, gentlemen, as I go by? Fine piece of codfish this morning."
Neither farmer nor gamekeeper made any response to this attempt to do business, and the fish-man accordingly retreated, and was presently heard vociferating his wares as he drove his pony and cart up the street. Uscroft laughed.
"I'll lay yon man takes more nor a few o' rabbit skins out o' t' village, Justice," he said. "More rabbits nor what ye and us farmers shoots, what?"
"And I dare say you farmers give your men a rabbit or two now and then," retorted the gamekeeper.
Uscroft rubbed his chin.
"I don't," he answered. "But it so chanced 'at I were ridin' home down yon Spittle Lane one day, and I come across t' fish-seller yonder sortin' rabbit-skins on t' roadside, and it struck me
