Affair of Pretense

Thirty-one

"Lawks a-mercy! Ain't this the mort mister was plannin' to snatch?" the thin man in an ill-fitting, dingy greatcoat whispered excitedly.

His companion, a burly figure, who appeared a few years older than him, sporting an equally soiled garment, and a black muffler hanging about his short neck, returned, "Oho! Fancies this piece, ain't he? What a piece of luck!" A heavy frown descended upon his thick, sandy brows. "Yes, but, Jason, how the devil did you know 'tis she?" he demanded.

"Follow'd 'er the other day," said the man named Jason. "Mister's o'ders! Said she was abound here som'ere and I should keep my daylights on her."

"Dang me, what's the lay this time? Thought he was for that yaller-head armful?" reflected the burly man as she surveyed the unconscious figure that propped limply against the wall. He shook his head and clucked his tongue in dissatisfaction. "If these savvy culls ain't so queer in their attics! I tell you, this rig won't do! Open your ogles at her: looks to be one of 'em flash morts, see?"

Jason followed this instruction and saw nothing of significance in this statement. "Might be right, but Mister didn't say nothin' to me."

"That's 'cause you don't ask fool!"

"Well, now, Mr Ned! Y'know 'tis he who calls the tune, eh? Mum's the word for me: what mister says, I'll answer, a-men!"

"Idiot! Don't you get it? If 'tis lass is one of 'em gentries we're in a rare hobble! Lord, 'tis an abduction, al-right!" Ned told his companion wisely. "He's mad!"

Jason peered at the figure again and observed, somewhat vacuously, that her hair was quite red. Ned demanded how could he have noticed it just now? "Said you was onto her the other day, didn't you? Dang me, man, you got no head on you. No head at all!"

"At least I ain't the one who make a bumble-broth of things, Mr Ned!" objected Jason, stung.

"What the devil d'ye mean by that?" said Ned irascibly. "I ain't the one, either, so don't dare throw that to my teeth! Yes! And who was the gudgeon who scuttled off and left those cargoes behind, eh? Tell me that!"

Georgie finally stirred, her lids tremulously opened. "Lawks! She's awoke!" said Jason with a gasp, forgetting his retort.

Unfamiliar faces swarmed before her, together with the glaring light from the lamp one of them was hovering over her face. Recollection dawned and so did panic. She sat up erect, her face white as sheet. "Who—who are you? Why am I here?" she demanded shrilly.

"Well, lass, we found you unconscious in the woods," said the burly man in a more refined accent. "Don't you remember anything?"

"Hazily! There were gunshots and riders approaching — " she broke off and looked about her, wide-eyed. It looked to be like a cave and casks were strewn here and there; she had no difficulty in deciphering what was afoot. "Could it be that you are smugglers?"

"Ho! Aye! You're quick—dang quick!" said Ned indulgently. "But we prefer to be called free-traders, my hearty."

"That's right," struck in Jason, with painstaking pretensions to refined accent, "Fuh-ree-tuh-ra-dees, mah hearty!

"We were chased after by an Exciseman, see?" continued Ned. "And then we saw you sprawled on the ground in the clearing."

"Sprawl'd, mah de-er," drawled Jason. "Very shocking!"

"Oh, stow it, lad! Stow it!" barked the older man impatiently. "If you had nothing better to say, shut yer gab, will ye?" Jason begged pardon, but subsided with dark mutterings. "Parted company with that mare of yorn, did ye?" he added. "Well! Could have been scared outta wits of the gunshots. Ho! Don't get you up yet, hearty. You're done to a cow's thumb, by Jove, you are!"