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This ended the prospect of fishing, and as he stood there idly dipping down the pole he hesitated as to what he should do, ending by beginning to go vigorously in the direction of Dave Gittan's newly-built-up hut. "I'll make him take me out shooting," he said; "and we'll go all over that rough part of the fen."
"He managed to crawl here to die." It was a solemn party that returned to the Toft that day: three boats, with the last propelled by Hickathrift, towing another behind. That last punt was Dave Gittan's, and in it, later on, the man was taken to his last resting-place.
But it was not to see John Warren's nor Dave Gittan's grave that Hickathrift led the young men to the one bit of waste land left, and there pointed to a wooden tablet nailed against a willow tree. "The squire give me leave, Mester Dick, and Jacob and me buried him theer when he died.
Better still, if he could get to his boat he might follow the wretch who was escaping, and know who it was. Dick felt directly that it was impossible, for the man would be beyond pursuit long before he could find his boat; and after listening again he began to creep cautiously back to where he had lain down and slept and left Dave Gittan's gun.
"Owd Dave Gittan's been buried twenty year, Mester Dick, so let him rest." "Rest! Of course; but come you do know?" "Yes, Mester Dick," said the wheelwright stolidly. "I do know, but I sweered as I'd nivver tell, and I'll keep my word." "Ah, well, I will not press you, Hicky! It was a sad time."
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