who--"

"Of the Hanyards, Esquire," said I in a testy whisper.

"Ha, yes," he corrected and compromised, "Master Wheatman of the
Hanyards, a loyal subject of His Gracious Majesty."

"The best friend and hardest hitter in broad Staffordshire," added Jack
heartily.

I stepped into the horseshoe and made a bow general to the company, and a
lower one for the benefit of my Lord Brocton, who sat next to the hearth
in pride of place and comfort. Some years older than I, but not yet
thirty, handsome as a god carved by Phidias, but with drink and devilment
already marking him out for a damned soul, he sat there, the idol of that
lord-worshipping company. The only vacant chair was on his left. It was
Jack's place, earned by his father's guineas, which had remained vacant
during his absence. The good lad, I record it with pride, notwithstanding
a forbidding glance from his father, motioned me towards it, and fetched a
glass and poured out wine for me. As I was stepping forward his lordship
was good enough to address me.

"Ha, Master Wheatman of the Hanyards,"--there was a sneer in his voice,
--"it is well I see thee on the right side, or, by gad and His Gracious
Majesty, we'd have that other five hundred acres of yours." He tossed off
a bumper of wine and added, "Or a solatium, Master Wheatman, a solatium."

I caught Jack's eye as I stepped right into the middle of the group. To
my astonishment it was glowing with anger. Did he not think I could take
care of myself? Really Jack was becoming mysterious, but I supposed that