"Now I comes to think 'pon et, 'tes Sat'rday night too; an' that's
odd, as Martha said by her glove."
Still Mr. Fogo was silent.
"As for the blunderbust, sir, there's no call to be afeard. Tes on'y
loaded wi' shot an' a silver shillin'. I heerd tell that over to
Tresawsen, wan time, they had purty trouble wi' a lerrupin' big hare,
sir. Neither man nor hound cud cotch her; an' as for bullets, her
tuk in bullets like so much ballast. Well, sir, th' ould Squire were
out wi' his gun wan day, an' 'way to track thicky hare, roun' an'
roun', for up ten mile; an' the more lead he fired, the better
plaised her seemed. 'Darn et!' says the old Squire at las'.
''Tes witchcraf; I'll try a silver bullet.' So he pulls out a
crown-piece an' hammers 'un into a slug to fit hes gun. He'd no
sooner loaded than out pops the hare agen, not twenty yards off, an'
right 'cross the path. Th' ould man blazed away, an' this time hit
her sure 'nuff: hows'ever, her warn't too badly wounded to nip roun'
the knap o' the hill an' out o' sight. 'I'll ha' 'ee!' cries the
Squire; an' wi' that pulls hot foot roun' the hill. An' there, sir,
clucked in under a bit o' rock, an' pantin' for dear life, were ould
Mally Skegg. I tell 'ee, sir, the Squire made no more to do, but
'way to run, an' niver stopped till he were safe home to Tresawsen.
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