enance, that they were not
after very large game that morning,--only Chipchase, the butcher.
And presently we came upon the rascal putting up his shutters in much
precipitation, although it was noon. He had shed his blood-stained smock
and breeches, and donned his Sunday best,--a white, thick-set coat,
country cloth jacket, blue broadcloth breeches, and white shirt. A
grizzled cut wig sat somewhat awry under his bearskin hat. When he
perceived Mr. Carroll at his shoulder, he dropped his shutter against
the wall, and began bowing frantically.

"You keep good hours, Master Chipchase," remarked Colonel Lloyd.

"And lose good customers," Mr. Swain added laconically.

The butcher wriggled.

"Your honours must know there be little selling when the gentry be
out of town. And I was to take a holiday to-day, to see my daughter
married."

"You will have a feast, my good man?" Captain Daniel asked.

"To be sure, your honour, a feast."

"And any little ewe-lambs?" says Mr. Bordley, very innocent.

Master Chipchase turned the colour of his meat, and his wit failed him.

"'Fourthly,'" recited Mr. Carroll, with an exceeding sober face,
"'Fourthly, that we will not kill, or suffer to be killed, or sell, or
dispose to any person whom we have reason to believe intends to kill,
any ewe-lamb that shall be weaned before the first day of May, in any
year during the time aforesaid.' Have you ever heard anything of that
sound, Mr. Chipchase?"

Mr. Chipchase had. And if their honours pleased, he had a defence to
make, if their honours would but listen. And if their honours but knew,
he was as good a patriot as any in the province, and sold his wool to
Peter Psalter, and he wore the homespun in winter. Then Mr. Carroll
drew a paper from his pocket, and began to read: "Mr. Thomas Hincks,
personally known to me, deposeth and saith,--"

Master Chipchase's knees gave from under him.

"And your honours please," he cried piteously, "I killed the lamb,
but 'twas at Mr. Grafton Carvel's order, who was in town with his
Excellency." (Here Mr. Swain and the captain glanced significantly at
me.) "And I lose Mr. Carvel's custom, there is twelve pounds odd gone a
year, your honours. And I am a poor man, sirs."

"Who is it owns your shop, my man?" asks Mr. Bordley, very sternly.

"Oh, I beg your honours will not have me put out--"

The wailing of his voice had drawn a crowd of idlers and brother
shopkeepers, who seemed vastly to enjoy the kna