"He was a stoutish fellow fifteen year ago, when he carried pots," said Mr Pink.
"Ay, and has snared many a hare in his time," said Mr Sims. "But he was always a little cracked. Lord bless you! he used to swear he'd a right to the Transome estate."
"Why, what put that notion into his head?" said Christian, who had learned more than he expected.
"The lawing, sir—nothing but the lawing about the estate. There was a deal of it twenty year ago," said Mr Pink. "Tommy happened to turn up hereabout at that time; a big, lungeous fellow, who would speak disrespectfully of hanybody."
"O, he meant no harm," said Mr Sims. "He was fond of a drop to drink, and not quite right in the upper storey, and he could hear no difference between Trounsem and Transome. It's an odd way of speaking they have in that part where he was born—a little north'ard. You'll hear it in his tongue now, if you talk to him."
"At the Cross-Keys I shall find him, eh?" said Christian, getting off his stool. "Good-day, Pink, good-day."
Christian went straight from the saddler's to Quorlen's, the Tory printer's, with whom he had contrived a political spree. Quorlen was a new man in Treby,
