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Updated: June 17, 2025
I should find a horse ready for me there, and he told me to ride to 'The Jolly Farmers, where I was to await the coming of a fiddler who would direct me further. He was most insistent on the exact road I should follow, that I should leave my horse at a certain place in the village, and reach the inn on foot. My escape was cleverly arranged." "This man did you a service," said Fairley.
"It's like ez not," continued Fairley to his daughter, but looking at the squaw, "that she'll be huntin' the woods off and on, and kinder looking after the last pit near the Madroños; ye'll give her grub and licker ez she likes. Well, d'ye hear, Flip? Are ye moonin' agin with yer secrets? What's gone with ye?" If the child were dreaming, it was a delicious dream.
You must not forget that he is half a madman, and sometimes talks wildly." Crosby told her the manner of his escape from Lenfield, as he had told it to Fairley; and if Barbara Lanison did not so obviously disbelieve it as the fiddler had done, her eyes were full of questioning. He explained how "The Jolly Farmers" had been searched, and how he and Martin had ridden away together in the night.
To-day or yesterday rather, for it must be long after midnight my house was secretly surrounded. My servant told me when I returned in the afternoon, and informed me also that a man was waiting to see me." "Who was it?" Fairley asked. "I must keep faith with him since so far he keeps faith with me. He bid me say nothing concerning him." A short ejaculation came from the fiddler.
I've got a hole where I kin watch it every four hours. When the time comes, I'm thar! Don't you see? That's me! that's David Fairley, that's the old man, you bet!" "That's so," said Lance, curtly. "And now, Mr. Fairley, if you'll hand me over a coat or jacket till I can get past these fogs on the Monterey road, I won't keep you from your diamond pit."
"And why in blames didn't you say so first?" he screamed, catching up his axe and rushing to the door. "Ye didn't give me a chance," said Flip, raising her eyes for the first time. With an impatient imprecation, Fairley darted by her and rushed into the wood. In an instant she had shut the door and bolted it.
Sometimes, half-jestingly it seemed, he asked his advice, and whatever Martin said was always considered. As often as not the advice given took the form of a parable, and, no matter how absurd it sounded, Sir John invariably tried to understand its meaning. Martin Fairley had come to the Abbey one winter's night soon after Barbara Lanison had been brought there.
"Can't ye get the poor critter some whiskey?" he queried, fretfully. "Ye used to be peart enuff before." As Flip turned to the corner to lift the demijohn, Fairley took occasion to kick the squaw with his foot, and indicate by extravagant pantomime that the bargain was not to be alluded to before the girl. Flip poured out some whiskey in a tin cup, and, approaching the squaw, handed it to her.
"I cannot tell you; there are no words," said Fairley, in that curious monotone which the recital of verse may give, or which constant singing may leave in a minstrel's ordinary speech. "I cannot tell, but my fiddle might play her to you in a rhapsody that should set the music in your soul vibrating.
Only the day before the meeting he had read of the massacre at Damascus from a newspaper which had been left on his doorstep overnight. Elder Fairley had so far broken the covenant of ostracism and boycott, knowing David's love for his Uncle Benn.
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