replications or rejoinders, sir, down with the dust. Fake his clies, pals. Let us see what he has about him.”
“In the twinkling of a bed-post,” replied Rust. “We’ll turn him inside out. What’s here?” cried he, searching the attorney’s pockets. “A brace of barkers,” handing a pair of pistols to Turpin, “a haddock, stuffed with nothing, I’m thinking; one quid, two coach-wheels, half a bull, three hogs, and a kick; a d — d dicky concern, captain.”
“Three hogs and a kick,” muttered Coates; “the knave says true enough.”
“Is there nothing else?” demanded Dick.
“Only an old snuffy fogle and a pewter sneezer.”
“No reader?90 Try his hoxter.”91
“Here’s a pit-man,92 captain.”
“Give it me. Ah! this will do,” cried Dick, examining the contents of the pocket-book. “This is a glorious windfall indeed; a bill of exchange for 500l., payable on demand, eh, Mr. Coates? Quick! indorse it, sir. Here’s pen and ink. Rascal! if you attempt to tear the bill, I’ll blow your brains out. Steady, sir, sign. Good!” added he, as Coates most reluctantly indorsed the bill. “Good! good! I’ll be off with this bill to London to-night, before you can stop it. No courier can beat Bess — ha, ha! Eh! what’s this?” continued Dick, as, unfolding another leaf of the pocket-book, he chanced upon a letter; “My Lady Rookwood’s superscription! Excuse me, Mr. Coates, I must have a peep at her ladyship’s billet-doux. All’s safe with me — man of honor. I must detain your reader a moment longer.”
“You should take charge of yourself, then,” replied Coates, sulkily. “You appear to be my reader.”
“Bravo!” cried Turpin. “You may jest now with impunity, Mr. Coates. You have paid dear enough for your jokes; and when should a man be allowed to be pleasant, if not at his own expense? — ha, ha! What’s this?” exclaimed he, opening the letter. “A ring, as I’m awake! and from her ladyship’s own fair finger, I’ll be sworn, for it bears her cipher, ineffaceably impressed as your image upon her heart — eh, Coates? Egad! you are a lucky dog, after all, to receive such a favor from such a lady — ha, ha! Meantime, I’ll take care of it for you,” continued Dick, slipping the ring on his little finger.
Turpin, we have before remarked, had a turn for mimicry; and it was with an irresistible feeling of deferential awe creeping over him that Coates heard the contents of Lady Rookwood’s epistle delivered with an enunciation as peremptory and imperious as that of her ladyship’s self. The letter was hastily indited, in a clear, firm hand, and partook of its writer’s decision of character. Dick found no difficulty in deciphering it. Thus ran the missive:
“Assured of your devotion and secrecy, I commit my own honor, and that of my son, to your charge. Time will not permit me to see you, or I would not write. But I place myself entirely in your hands. You will not dare to betray my confidence. To the point:— A Major Mowbray has just arrived here with intelligence that the body of Susan Bradley — you will know to whom I allude — has been removed from our family vault by a Romish priest and his assistants. How it came there, or why it has been removed, I know not; it is not my present purpose to inquire. Suffice it, that it now lies in a vault beneath the ruins of Davenham Priory. My son, Sir Ranulph, who has lent a credulous ear to the artful tales of the impostor who calls this woman mother, is at present engaged in arming certain of the household, and of the tenantry, to seize upon and bring away this body, as resistance is apprehended from a horde of gipsies who infest the ruins. Now, mark me. That body must not be found! Be it your business to prevent its discovery. Take the fleetest horse you can procure; spare neither whip nor spur. Haste to the priory; procure by any means, and at any expense, the assistance of the gipsies. Find out the body; conceal it, destroy it — do what you will, so my son find it not. Fear not his resentment; I will bear you harmless of the consequences with him. You will act upon my responsibility. I pledge my honor for your safety. Use all despatch, and calculate upon due requital from
“Maud Rookwood.
“Haste, and God speed you!”
“God speed you!” echoed Dick, in his own voice, contemptuously. “The devil drive you! would have been a fitter postscript. And it was upon this precious errand you came, Mr. Coates?”
“Precisely,” replied the attorney; “but I find the premises preoccupied. Fast as I have ridden, you are here before me.”
“And what do you now propose to do?” asked Turpin.
“Bargain with you for the body,” replied Coates, in an insinuating tone.
“With me!” said Dick; “do you take me for a resurrection cove; for a dealer in dead stock, eh! sirrah?”
“I take you for one sufficiently alive, in a general way, to his own interests,” returned Coates. “These gentlemen may not, perhaps, be quite so scrupulous, when they hear my proposals.”
“Be silent, sir,” interrupted Turpin. “Hist! I hear the tramp of horses’ hoofs without. Hark! that shout.”
“Make your own terms before they come,” said Coates. “Leave all to me. I’ll put ’em on a wrong scent.”
“To the devil with your terms,” cried Turpin; “the signal!” And he pulled the trigger of one of Coates’s pistols, the shot of which rang in the ears of the astounded attorney as it whizzed past him. “Drag him into the mouth of the vault,” thundered Turpin: “he will be a capital cover in case of attack. Look to your sticks, and be on the alert; — away!”
Vainly did the unfortunate attorney kick and struggle, swear and scream; his hat was pushed over his eyes; his bob-wig thrust into his mouth; and his legs tripped from under him. Thus blind, dumb, and half-suffocated, he was hurried into the entrance of the cell.
Dick, meanwhile, dashed to the arched outlet of the ruin. He there drew in the rein, and Black Bess stood motionless as a statue.
* * * * *
90. Pocket-book.
91. Inside coat-pocket.
92. A small pocket-book.
CHAPTER 14
DICK TURPIN
Many a fine fellow with a genius extensive enough to have effected universal reformation has been doomed to perish by the halter. But does not such a man’s renown extend through centuries and tens of centuries, while many a prince would be overlooked in history were it not the historian’s interest to increase the number of his pages? Nay, when the traveller sees a gibbet, does he not exclaim, “That fellow was no fool!” and lament the hardship of the times? —Schiller: The Robbers.
Turpin’s
