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Updated: May 22, 2025
"Mac ain't no fool, if he does chaw hay," said another, and the crowd laughed. They were losing that frenzy, largely imitative and involuntary, which actuates a mob. There was something counteracting in the ex-sheriff's cool, humorous tone. "Give us the rest of it, Mac!" "The rest of it is clear out o' here, 'r I'll boot every mother's son of yeh!" "Can't do it!" "Come down an' try it!"
But in that little book-lined room, with these curious things in boxes on the table, and his merry host peering at him gravely, and the still evening outside; with the knowledge that to-morrow he was to ride back to his own country, whence he had fled for fear of his life, six weeks ago; leaving the security of this ex-sheriff's house for the perils of the Peak and all that suspected region from which even now, probably, the pursuit had not altogether died away here a sudden intense desire to know what the future might hold overcame him.
The ex-sheriff's family were instituting proceedings independent of the Chief's orders. The next morning, this party plunged into the mountain tangle, and beat the cover with the bloodhounds in leash. The two gentle-faced dogs picked their way between the flowering rhododendrons, the glistening laurels, the feathery pine sprouts and the moss-covered rocks.
I had just got to the journey of Titmouse from London to Yorkshire in that ex-sheriff's coach he bought in Long Acre where now the motor-cars are sold when there came a telegram to bid me note how a certain Mr. Holt was upon the ocean, coming back to England from a little excursion.
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