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Updated: June 11, 2025
Don't let these cases out of your sight until Private Cooper calls for them." He went out and came back later with the trooper and a teamster they had hired, who loaded the cases on a sled. Sergeant Inglis, however, sat still in his saddle, with a watchful eye on Mitcham and another man who stood, handcuffed, at his horse's side.
"Stick a knife into me; do anything!" he said to his second, "if I go off, only bring me up to time. He can't hold out much longer." Nor could he. His hitting became more and more at random, until at last, on getting up from his second's knee, Mitcham cried in a hoarse voice, "Where is he? I can't see him!" Then Tom went forward with his hands down.
Of the number of these was Richard Trantham, a married man, having a wife and child living at the time of his death, keeping also a tolerable house at Mitcham in Surrey.
Tom Scudamore, they call him." "I guessed as much," Captain Manley laughed; "I knew they would not be long here without a fight. Who was the other?" "Well, sir, I almost thought it must be a mistake when they told me, seeing they are so unequally matched, but they all say so, so in course it's true the other was Mitcham, the bugler of No. 3 Company."
"There's one group, the Mitcham crowd, who would like to run me out. The fellow's piling up money by smuggling in liquor; he and his friends are depraving the camp. They must be stopped." "It's a big thing for one man to undertake. It may wreck your mission." Ferguson's eyes sparkled. "The risk mustn't count. One can't shut one's eyes to what those fellows are doing.
However, as it was plain that Tom would not take a thrashing for the blow he had struck, and there did not seem any satisfactory way out of it, nothing was done, except that two or three of them went up to Mitcham, and strongly urged him to shake hands with Tom, and confess that he had done wrong in giving him the lie. This Mitcham would not hear of, and there was nothing further to be done.
"You don't know what you are doing, young 'un," one said to Tom; "when you hit a fellow here, you must fight him. That's the rule, and you can't fight Mitcham; he's two years older, at least, and a head taller." "Of course I will fight him," Tom said. "I would fight him if he were twice as big, if he called me a liar." "Nonsense, young 'un!" another said, "it's not possible.
This is an incomparable pleasant Dram, tasting like Ice, or Snow, in the Mouth, but creates a fine warmth in the Stomach, and yields a most refreshing Flavour. This Sort of Mint is hard to be met with; but is lately cultivated in some Physick Gardens at Mitcham.
On his death, apparently in 1627, he was found to have left bequests to almost every place in Surrey, according to the manners of the inhabitants to Mitcham a horsewhip, to Walton-on- Thames a bridle, to Betchworth, Leatherhead, and many more, endowments which produce from 50 to 75 pounds a year, and to Cobham a sum to be spent annually in woollen cloth of a uniform colour, bearing Smith's badge, to be given away in church to the poor and impotent, as the following tablet still records:
Strikes me it wouldn't pay you to bring your hobos along." Mitcham looked at the others and saw that they were resolute. His enemies were masters of the situation. Bluster and threats would not serve him; but it was Kermode's amusement which caused him the most uneasiness. "Well," he said, "keep them while you can. You're going to be sorry for this!"
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