People said that Veale
was half a gipsy, that his boys were growing up as hardy young
poachers, and that every time he got drunk at the Barradine Arms he
would himself produce wire nooses from his pocket, and offer to go out
and snare a pheasant before the morning if anybody would pay for it in
advance by another quart of ale.
Drunk or sober now, he widely advertised a sincere sense of obligation
to his preserver. He bothered Dale with too profuse acknowledgments;
he came to the Vine-Pits kitchen door at all hours; and he would even
stop the red-coated young gentlemen as they rode home from hunting, in
order to supply them with unimpeachable details of all that had
happened. He told the tale with the greatest gusto, and invariably
began and ended in the same manner.
"You sin it in th' paper, I make no doubt, but yer can 'aave it from
me to its proper purpus. Mr. Dale he plunged without so much as
tekking off of his getters and spurs." And then he described how,
stupefied by his mortal danger, he treated Dale more like an enemy
than a savior. "I gripped 'un, sir, tighter than a lad in his senses
'd clip his sweetheart;" and he would pause and laugh. "Yes, I'd 'a'
drowned 'un as well as myself if he'd 'a' let me.
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