Chapter 8.7 - Shirley

I rode over to Winbury this morning, got a constable and a warrant, and I am now waiting to give my friend the reception he deserves. Here, meantime, comes Sykes. Mr. Helstern, you must spirit him up, he feels timid at the thoughts of prosecuting. A gig was heard to roll into the yard. Mr. Sykes entered. A tall, stout man of about fifty, comely of feature, but feeble of physiognomy. He looked anxious. Have they been? Are they gone? Have you got him? Is it over? He asked. Not yet, returned Moore with phlegm. We are waiting for them. They'll not come. It's near noon. Better give it up. It will excite bad feeling, make a stir, cause, perhaps, fatal consequences. You need not appear, said Moore. I shall meet them in the yard when they come. You can stay here, but my name must be seen in the law proceedings. A wife and family, Mr. Moore, a wife and family, and make a man cautious. Moore looked disgusted. Give way, if you please, he said. Leave me to myself. I have no objection to act alone. Only be assured you will not find safety in submission. Your partner, Pearson, gave way, and conceded, and forbore, well, that did not prevent them from attempting to shoot him in his own house. My dear sir, take a little wine and water, recommended Mr. Halston. The wine and water was Holland's and water, as Mr. Sykes discovered when he had compounded and swallowed a brimming tumbler thereof. It transfigured him in two minutes, brought the colour back to his face, and made him at least word valiant. He now announced that he hoped he was above being trampled on by the common people. He was determined to endure the insolence of the working classes no longer. He had considered of it, and made up his mind to go all lengths. If money and spirit could put down these rioters, they should be put down. Mr. Moore might do as he liked, but he, Christy Sykes, would spend his last penny in law before he would be beaten. He'll settle them, or he'd see.