"Scullery-girl, I said:" rejoined Crick, in
correction of the inaccuracy.

"Well then," said Humble, after a pause,
"I suppose she knows."

"'Course she does," said Crick; "and more
nor that, she told me what they was a-going
to have for dinner. Pig's fry and a goose,
and three biled fowls, and a knuckle o' ham,
pidgeon pye, and roast beef, and soup, and
cheese, and a salmon, and wedgables—all
sorts—and custards and roast weal, and a
pint o' s'rimp sarce; besides lots o' wine and
ale, and grapes, and nuts, and plum-pudden,
to be putt on the side-board, ready."

At the conclusion of this inventory, which,
except as to the order of the "serving," did
considerable credit to the retentive memory
of the speaker, the three men's eyes all met,
in a common centre, and the faces all gave a
strange grin of greedy delight, quickly
relapsing into a kind of morose gravity and
self-restraint, as though, from the consideration
that "work" was to be done before
play.

The house they had planned to break into
and rob, belonged to a tolerably wealthy
family, named Frampton, with whom the
"squire's" son was to dine to-day. The
squire was a rich man, and there were three
unmarried daughters in the family he was to
visit, so that the parents, on both sides,
thought a match would be a very suitable
thing—no matter which daughter he chose.

There were only three large houses in the
village, and these were at a considerable
distance apart. The squire's house was at
the southernmost end; the house of the
clergyman, who was also the magistrate, was
at the northernmost end, three miles distant;
and the house of the Framptons' stood just
between. It lay back half a mile from the
high-road, approachable by a long carriage-
drive of bright gravel, and was surrounded
by lofty trees.

Opposite the white gates that opened out
into the high-road, were the remains of a
fourth large house in the village, which,
having been the subject of an apparently
interminable law-suit, had been suffered,
meantime, to fall into utter decay, so that it could
be of no earthly use to the winner. One
wing of it had fallen down, and every windy
night it was expected the whole would come
to the ground. There was a large lawn at
the back, over-grown with rank weeds, and
then a great desolate garden of considerable
length, terminating with an old vine-wall and
a summer-house, now thickly over-grown with
ivy. On the other side of this ran the narrow
pathway, through wet nettles and thistles,
that led to the ugly little hedge ale-house,
bearing the sign of the "Overthrown Cart,"
in front of which the three burglars were now
seated in conference.

The totally unprotected condition of the
rural populations, in respect of police, is a
fact little considered, or indeed known, by the
inhabitants of our cities and towns. The
country "gentry" are very well aware of it;
but most of them seldom think much about
it, except when some neighbouring house is
robbed; and the rest content themselves with
relying upon their men-servants, door-bolts,
and window-bells, a loaded gun hanging up
in the cloak-and-boot room, and a large dog
in the yard. Not only is there no rural police,
but no continuous or combined efforts are
made to obtain one.

True, there is a mounted patrol. He is
very valuable in the prevention of highway
robberies. But his "beat" is confined to the
high roads, and does not, and cannot, unless
there are several, extend through the
bye-ways and back-lanes of a village, and still less
can he exercise any watchfulness over houses
lying half a mile out of the high road.
Hence, he is no protection against burglary to
residences thus situated.

Are there, then, no other means provided
by the parish for the protection of the
inhabitants of a village, and the due enforcement
of the law? Yes, there is the constable.
The village of which we are now speaking,
has a very good constable. There he sits!

On a little bench, painted blue, beside a
small blue table, at the left-hand side of the
doorway of the "Royal George," is now seated
Matthew Pringle, cobbler and sworn constable
of the village. Being a constable, he is, as he
ought, to be, in the prime of life, and a strong-
built man; and being a cobbler, he is, of
course, short of stature, with bent knobby
knees, hunched shoulders, thick-tipped grimy
black fingers, a thoughtful face, and a bald
head.

Matthew Pringle had an empty bright
pewter pint pot standing before him on the
table. His arms were folded, and he was
leaning back against the blue rail of the
bench, looking up at a large sign of his late
lamented Majesty, George the Fourth, attired
in coronation robes of scarlet and green,
trimmed with a profusion of rabbits' fur, and
wearing several oyster-shells, one of them
with an oyster in it (though not meant for
that) hanging round his neck, or stuck upon
his ample chest. The sign slowly swung to
and fro in the wind, as if graciously
acknowledging the homage which, it took it for
granted, the mind of the contemplative
cobbler was loyally offering to the memory of
its august original.

But it was not so. The mind of Matthew
Pringle was at this moment occupied with
the memory of James Humble, the burglar.
What association had suddenly brought him
into the head of the constable at this time it
is impossible to say—unless, indeed, it was
seeing the Vicar's man go by, with a brace of
hares, for almost immediately he bethought
him that he had lost sight of James Humble
these last six months. He wondered where
he was gone. If he had been hanged or
transported, Pringle would have heard of it.