Grenadiers‘— that Major Mowbray, by-the-by, is a nephew of the late Sir Piers, and cousin of the present baronet —’and commit other notorious felonies and robberies near London, his Majesty is pleased to promise his most gracious pardon to any of his accomplices, and a reward of two hundred pounds to any person or persons who shall discover him, so as he may be apprehended and convicted.’”
“Odsbodikins!” exclaimed Titus, “a noble reward! I should like to lay hands upon Turpin,” added he, slapping Palmer’s shoulder: “I wish he were in your place at this moment, Jack.”
“Thank you!” replied Palmer, shifting his chair.
“’Turpin,’” continued Coates, “’was born at Thacksted, in Essex; is about thirty‘— you, sir, I believe, are about thirty?” added he, addressing Palmer.
“Thereabouts,” said Jack, bluffly. “But what has my age to do with that of Turpin?”
“Nothing — nothing at all,” answered Coates; “suffer me, however, to proceed:—’Is by trade a butcher,’— you, sir, I believe, never had any dealings in that line?”
“I have some notion how to dispose of a troublesome calf,” returned Jack. “But Turpin, though described as a butcher, is, I understand, a lineal descendant of a great French archbishop of the same name.”
“Who wrote the chronicles of that royal robber Charlemagne; I know him,” replied Coates —“a terrible liar! — The modern Turpin ’is about five feet nine inches high‘— exactly your height, sir — exactly!”
“I am five feet ten,” answered Jack, standing bolt upright.
“You have an inch, then, in your favor,” returned the unperturbed attorney, deliberately proceeding with his examination —”’he has a brown complexion, marked with the smallpox.’”
“My complexion is florid — my face without a seam,” quoth Jack.
“Those whiskers would conceal anything,” replied Coates, with a grin. “Nobody wears whiskers nowadays, except a highwayman.”
“Sir!” said Jack, sternly. “You are personal.”
“I don’t mean to be so,” replied Coates; “but you must allow the description tallies with your own in a remarkable manner. Hear me out, however —’his cheek bones are broad — his face is thinner towards the bottom — his visage short — pretty upright — and broad about the shoulders.’ Now I appeal to Mr. Tyrconnel if all this does not sound like a portrait of yourself.”
“Don’t appeal to me,” said Titus, hastily, “upon such a delicate point. I can’t say that I approve of a gentleman being likened to a highwayman. But if ever there was a highwayman I’d wish to resemble, it’s either Redmond O’Hanlon or Richard Turpin; and may the devil burn me if I know which of the two is the greater rascal!”
“Well, Mr. Palmer,” said Coates, “I repeat, I mean no offence. Likenesses are unaccountable. I am said to be like my Lord North; whether I am or not, the Lord knows. But if ever I meet with Turpin I shall bear you in mind — he — he! Ah! if ever I should have the good luck to stumble upon him, I’ve a plan for his capture which couldn’t fail. Only let me get a glimpse of him, that’s all. You shall see how I’ll dispose of him.”
“Well, sir, we shall see,” observed Palmer. “And for your own sake, I wish you may never be nearer to him than you are at this moment. With his friends, they say Dick Turpin can be as gentle as a lamb; with his foes, especially with a limb of the law like yourself, he’s been found but an ugly customer. I once saw him at Newmarket, where he was collared by two constable culls, one on each side. Shaking off one, and dealing the other a blow in the face with his heavy-handled whip, he stuck spurs into his mare, and though the whole field gave chase, he distanced them all, easily.”
“And how came you not to try your pace with him, if you were there, as you boasted a short time ago?” asked Coates.
“So I did, and stuck closer to him than any one else. We were neck and neck. I was the only person who could have delivered him to the hands of justice, if I’d felt inclined.”
“Zounds!” cried Coates; “If I had a similar opportunity, it should be neck or nothing. Either he or I should reach the scragging-post first. I’d take him, dead or alive.”
“You take Turpin?” cried Jack, with a sneer.
“I’d engage to do it,” replied Coates. “I’ll bet you a hundred guineas I take him, if I ever have the same chance.”
“Done!” exclaimed Jack, rapping the table at the same time, so that the glasses danced upon it.
“That’s right,” cried Titus. “I’ll go you halves.”
“What’s the matter — what’s the matter?” exclaimed Small, awakened from his doze.
“Only a trifling bet about a highwayman,” replied Titus.
“A highwayman!” echoed Small. “Eh! what? there are none in the house, I hope.”
“I hope not,” answered Coates. “But this gentleman has taken up the defence of the notorious Dick Turpin in so singular a manner, that ——”
“Quod factu fœdum est, idem est et Dictu Turpe,” returned Small. “The less said about that rascal the better.”
“So I think,” replied Jack. “The fact is as you say, sir — were Dick here, he would, I am sure, take the freedom to hide ’em.”
Further discourse was cut short by the sudden opening of the door, followed by the abrupt entrance of a tall, slender young man, who hastily advanced towards the table, around which the company were seated. His appearance excited the utmost astonishment in the whole group: curiosity was exhibited in every countenance — the magnum remained poised midway in the hand of Palmer — Dr. Small scorched his thumb in the bowl of his pipe; and Mr. Coates was almost choked, by swallowing an inordinate whiff of vapor.
“Young Sir Ranulph!” ejaculated he, as soon as the syncope would permit him.
“Sir Ranulph here?” echoed Palmer, rising.
“Angels and ministers!” exclaimed Small.
“Odsbodikins!” cried Titus, with a theatrical start; “this is more than I expected.”
“Gentlemen,” said Ranulph, “do not let my unexpected arrival here discompose you. Dr. Small, you will excuse the manner of my greeting; and you, Mr. Coates. One of the present party, I believe, was my father’s medical attendant, Dr. Tyrconnel.”
“I had that honor,” replied the Irishman, bowing profoundly —“I am Dr. Tyrconnel, Sir Ranulph, at your service.”
“When, and at what hour, did my father breathe his last, sir?” inquired Ranulph.
“Poor Sir Piers,” answered Titus, again bowing, “departed this life on Thursday last.”
“The hour? — the precise
