I
should not have mentioned this trifling sickness but that it
prevented me from witnessing the arrival of a fresh batch of
prisoners; so that when I descended on the third day into the
courtyard I was mightily surprised to see, at that very instant
carrying a bucket of water across from the keep, no other than my
old friend Joe Punchard.
"Joe!" I cried, beyond measure delighted at seeing a familiar face.
Down went the bucket with a clatter upon the stones, and Joe looked
around as though scarce trusting his ears. Then seeing me he
waddled across, seized my hand, and shook it with a hearty goodwill
that was somewhat over vigorous for my enfeebled condition.
"Ods firkins, sir!" he cried, "my head spins like a whirligig. How
dost come here among these heathen Frenchies, and all the way from
Shrewsbury, too?"
Before I was halfway through my story, one of the soldiers ran up
and ordered Joe to fill his bucket again and wash out the lower
rooms.
"Ay, I'm a swab again, sure enough," says poor Joe, going off
ruefully to his task.
He was soon back, and when he had heard me through my account of
what had befallen me since I saw him last, he broke out into
vehement denunciation of Cyrus Vetch and all the race of Cluddes.
Vetch himself happening to pass at that moment, wearing the hangdog
look habitual to him since fate had made him a prisoner, Joe bursts
out:
"Ay, you may well look ashamed of yourself, you villain! Where's
that will, rogue? What have you done wi' 't?"
Vetch turned a shade paler, I thought.
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