CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE RISE OF THE TIDE.
"Come here," shouted the blacksmith, who was outside his shop, and still wore his apron, and the smut and rust on his hands and face. "Come here, Master Jingles. You've come into the midst of us, and we want to know something from you. Where is your father? We've seen nothing of him since Friday. If he has not been at mischief, why don't he come forward like a man? Why don't your father show his face? He ain't a tortoise, privileged to draw it in, or a hedgehog, at liberty to coil it up. Where is he? He is not at home. If he is hiding, what is he hiding from unless he be guilty?"
"He may have gone after work," said young Saltren.
"I heard him say," said the shoemaker, "that his lordship was doomed to destruction."
"I know he said it," answered the blacksmith, "and I ask, is a man like to make a prophecy and not try to make what he said come to pass?"
"Human nature is human nature," threw in the tailor.
"And fax is fax," added the miner.
"Then," pursued the blacksmith, "let us look at things as they affect us. His lordship has kept about twenty-three horses—hunters, cobs, ponies and carnage horses—and each has four hoofs, and all wants shoeing once a month,
