Part 6

Phil had not long to wait for the return of his eccentric companion. Zed soon was at Phil's side, and, grasping his hand, assured him they would soon be as rich as Jews with the buried gold.

"'Don't say so till you're sure!'" again cried Phil: but Zed took no notice of it, and upheaving the pick-axe, without spending a moment in considering whereabouts he ought to begin, struck at the ground with all his might, assisted, not a little, at the first, by his invisible but potent friend, Dr. Alcohol.

"Have you begun so soon, Zed?" asked Phil.

"Ay, to be sure," replied Zed, "I'm in earnest, man, and mean to have this gold, depend on't."

"I'faith, it seems as though you did," returned Phil, feeling disposed to roast his old friend, as they say; "do you find aught yet?"

"Pooh!" answered Zed, "let me get another foot or so deeper, and then ask me."

"Oh, I'm in no hurry," said Phil; "only I thought I might as well be knowing. But are you tired so soon, Zed?"

"I'm only just resting a moment," replied Zed; but he was up, and was working away again with the pick-axe the next minute. Then he took the shovel and began to clear away the loose earth, so as to be able to see, by the light of the lanthorn, how deeply he had penetrated the ground.

"Do you see aught yet?" asked Phil with a slight titter which he suppressed as well as he could.

"Don't be in such a confounded hurry! I didn't think a bit o'gold would ha' made you so covetous to get at it!" answered Zed, throwing down the pick-axe, and pretending to be in a pet, though, in reality, it was the tremendous ache in his back that caused him to throw down an instrument of labour to which his aged hands were quite unused.

"Nay, nay, I tell you, I'm in no hurry at all," again retorted Phil; "only, as I said before, I thought I might as well be knowing."

"All right, Phil!" cried Zed, in a twinkling of time, "here goes again!" and struck more savagely at the ground this time than ever; for, in spite of his affected coolness, the old fisherman began to feel very impatient. In the course of a very few minutes, however, Zed was again unable, from sheer weariness, to proceed, and, although he changed his implement again for the spade, yet his back ached too violently for him to go on with his gold-finding, so he sat down once more to rest, and wiped the streaming perspiration from his aged face with a hand that trembled, as indeed he trembled all over, like an aspen leaf.

"Mercy on us!" cried Phil, "how you puff and blow, Zed! Do you begin to feel ill with your hard work?"

"Pshaw! how old-womanish you talk!" retorted the fisherman, and started up again, like a young blood of four-and-twenty. But, somehow or other, Zed found it quite impossible to get on, the ache in his old back was so violent.

"I say, Phil," he said, pausing suddenly, and looking very cunning at the fiddler,—though the fiddler could not see either the sly wink of his eye or any other of the signs by which the old fisherman intended it to be understood that a very shrewd thought had struck him,—"I say, Phil, what d'ye suppose I'm just now thinking about?"

"Can't tell exactly," replied Phil, though he had a somewhat knowing idea of what was coming, for all that.

"Why, I was thinking——Oh!" said the poor old fisherman, feeling a twinge in his back so dreadfully excruciating that it forced him to cry out before he was aware—

"What! have you found the gold?" asked Phil, bursting into a titter; "have you found it, Zed?"

"Found the devil!" exclaimed Zed, growing really ill-tempered at being thus coolly roasted by his old companion.

"For Heaven's sake, take care, Zed; or we _may_ find him, with a witness, in this queer place, and at this queer time o'night!" rejoined the fiddler; "but what may you be thinking about, after all, Zed?"

"Why, I was thinking we might cover up this hole, so that no notice would be taken of it, and then come and finish the job another time," replied Zed, who felt so much ashamed of what pain compelled him to say, that he could with difficulty get through his speech.

"Come, now, sit you down a bit, Zed," said Phil, in a tone of hearty kindness, that always came over Zed's more boisterous nature with the power of a sweet lull after a squall,—"sit you down a bit, and let's have a bit o'talk, while you rest yourself, for I'm sure your old bones must ache with pain and weariness. Now, I say, Zed, just tell me, will you, what would you do with this gold if you found it?"

"Do with it!" exclaimed Zed, staring at the fiddler, though the fiddler could not stare at him; "what would I do with it, Phil?"

"Ay, what would you do with it? Are you tired of the old boat, after we've cruised in her so many long years?"

"Tired of her! God forbid!" answered Zed, with warmth rendered ludicrous by his insobriety; "no, Phil! you and I will never forsake the old boat until our own poor old timbers fall fairly in pieces!"

"I thought you could not be thinking about that," said Phil; "but what, then, I say, Zed,—what could you contrive to do with this gold, if you found it?"

"We could comfort the hearts of poor Dick Toller's motherless and fatherless children, and poor Bob Wilson's and Joe Martin's widows with it, you know, Phil," answered the old fisherman.

"God bless your old heart, Zed!" cried Phil, grasping his old comrade's hand, while his voice faltered with deep emotion, "that's spoken just like you! But I tell you, Zed, it is but a wild scheme to be killing yourself with trying to find this gold."

"To speak truth," said Zed, interrupting the other, "I begin to think so, too: only, you see, Phil, this old head o'mine always turns so wild when I happen to be such a fool as to take rum when they offer it me. As you always say, Phil, if one could but have the resolution to stick to Sir John Barleycorn instead of——"

"Well, well, Zed, say no more about it," said Phil, remembering that the transgression was not entirely confined to his friend; "shovel in the moulds as soon as you can, and let us be making our way home, for yon's twelve by the church clock, and we mustn't be after sunrise, you know, to-morrow; 'twill be bad luck if we be, depend on't."

So Zed shovelled in the earth as fast as his aches and pains would permit him; and at length Phil threw the pick-axe over his shoulder, and Zed bearing the fiddle-box, and shovel, and lanthorn, without spending more time in talking, they hied them home as nimbly as they could, dropping the pick-axe and shovel over the Talbot yard wall as they went by, and speedily throwing themselves on their joint bed, when they had reached it, fell asleep almost in a moment.

Before the sun arose, however, they were up and in the open air; but Zed groaned heavily, more than once, as they went along towards the Trent bank, for his aged bones were very stiff at the joints, as he said, and he often called himself a fool, inwardly, as he thought of his wild, money-digging freak of the preceding night. His melancholy, however, was but transitory. The merry-hearted old men were soon on their favourite element; the sun began to throw its cheering beams once more upon the rippling waters; and, as the willows on the banks of the noble Trent waved in the gentle breeze, and the rich meadows on the border of the river sent forth their reviving fragrance, Zed lifted up his head, while his hand plied the oar, and in the fulness of a happy heart thus opened the conversation for the day:—

"Well, I wouldn't change places with the king on his throne, Phil; I don't believe there's a happier pair than you and I, Phil, in the wide world. And yet, now, as wild a scheme as that was of mine last night, I cannot help wishing, this morning, that we had some o' that gold at this moment. I could like to try my hand, Phil, as old and inexperienced as it is in such work, at making some part of the world happier."

"And so could I, Zed," said Phil; "and now don't you think that my godmother's grandfather's plan of dividing the land would be a good one, and tend to make the world happier, if it were carried into effect?"

"The deuce is in you, Phil, for always bringing up that plan of your godmother's grandfather!" said old Zed; "why, the plan may be good enough, Phil; but how can it be brought about?"

"How can you get the gold?" retorted Phil.

"Good!" said Zed, with a hearty laugh; "i'faith, Phil, one scheme is as likely to be brought about as the other: but, take hold of that end o' the net, Phil, for I see a famous pike or two, darting about; and, you know, we must try to get something to-day."

The net was thrown out, but failed; and, what was most unusual, the labour of Zed and Phil was continued for several hours without the capture even of a solitary eel. Phil often thought Zed threw out the net very wildly, and imagined the liquor he took at the wedding had not yet spent its effects on him; but the blind man could not be sure, for Zed seemed resolutely taciturn.

'Twas about ten in the forenoon that Phil felt the little boat was "brought up,"—he thought in an inlet, or small creek, on the Lindsey side of the Trent, after they had laboured with nets and lines ever since a little after sunrise, and all without a single instance of success.——

"Phil, d'ye know why I've pulled in here this morning?" said Zed, as he was mooring the skiff.

"No, by'r leddy!" answered the old-fashioned fiddler, "I can't tell, for the life of me! but it seems to me that you've pulled in at Burton Folly,—have you not, Zed? and what's the meaning of it?"

"Look sharp, Phil!" said Zed, briskly helping Phil out of the boat, "we've had hard luck in the water this morning, but we'll try our luck on land for once: we'll have one or two of 'Squire Hutton's pheasants before we leave the holt."

"'Don't say so till you're sure!'" said Phil, for that was a common saying with him, as I hinted before; "I wish I could _look sharp_, as you bid me, Zed,—for I'll be hanged if you are not tearing my poor legs among the whins, like old pork, as the saying goes."

"The deuce I am!" exclaimed Zed, slackening his pace; "I wouldn't hurt you, for all the world, Phil: but you know it's worth while trying to catch a pheasant or two,—they're such fine game."

"I don't know, Zed," rejoined Phil, "whether it be worth while or not: we may get into a scrape by it, as old as we are, and——"

"Pshaw!" cried Zed, with an air of resolute contempt; "come along, Phil!—come along!"

"O come along, ay!" said Phil; "I shall go with you, if you go to the very devil!—but then I don't see what's the use of going there, yet,—as old 'Squire Pimpleface used to say, when he gave up playing cards at Saturday midnight, and refused, ever after to play on Sunday mornings——"

"Hush!" said Zed, stopping short,—"my eyes! why, that must be the gamekeeper! No, it isn't:—but we had better lie down, Phil."

"Down be it then!" said Phil, prostrating himself among the long grass, while the old fisherman followed his example.

"Now, tell me," continued the fiddler, in a whisper, as they lay along among the grass, and the fisherman was anxiously keeping the look-out,—"tell me how you intend to catch the pheasants, Zed: you know you've no gun; and you can't catch 'em with a net in open day,—besides you haven't brought the net out of the boat, have you?"

"Pooh!" replied Zed, "why, I've heard my father say that 'Squire Hutton's pheasants used to be as tame as bantam cocks, even in his time. We may catch 'em, bless your soul! ay, easily! And, if not, I'm sure I could hit one and knock it down with my hat."

The blind fiddler burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter on hearing this artless declaration from his ancient companion.

"Zowks, Zed!" he exclaimed at last, "thou hast got some wild maggots, for sure, into thy head this morning! prythee look out again, and see if the coast be clear; for the sooner we shove off in the boat again the better, I'm very sartain."

"Confound that fellow! he's coming this way," said Zed, in a voice of alarm. And, indeed, there now seemed to be cause for fear, seeing that a tall man, with a gun on his shoulder, was hastening down the hill, apparently in a direction towards the foolish hiding-place of the fiddler and the fisherman.

"What shall we do, Phil?" asked Zed, in the next breath.

"Cut and run!" cried Phil, and sprung up as nimbly as a hare when you stumble upon her seat.

"Come along, then!" said Zed; and, seizing his blind companion by the hand, away they galloped, as fast as their old limbs would wag down the declivity, to the boat.

Zed pushed Phil, head over heels, into the skiff, and, jumping in himself, scudded away out of the creek as fast as he could possibly "scull," or turn the oar, at the boat's stern, after the manner of a screw, in the water. The gamekeeper came up the water-side, and approached within a few yards of the boat, before the adventurers could make their way back into the broad Trent.

"You are two very old men," said he, lifting up his hand in a warning manner, "or I would certainly detain you, and have you indicted for trespass. Take care you are never found here again!"

Neither of the old men made a word of reply; and the gamekeeper walked away.

"Detained us!—would he?" said Zed, in a low, but contemptuous tone, as soon as they had gained the breadth of the river, and the gamekeeper was sufficiently out of hearing,—"how could he have done that, if he had tried, think you, Phil?"

"Never mind talking about that, Zed,—let us be content with having got out of a scrape," answered blind Phil: "but now tell me, Zed," he continued, putting an oar on one side of the boat, and taking his share of labour with as easy naturalness as if he had possessed the most perfect eyesight,—"what it could be that put such a wild notion into your head as to lead you to think of catching a pheasant with your hand, or of knocking it down with your hat:—why didn't you take a bit o' salt to throw on its tail, Zed?" concluded the fiddler, and burst into another fit of helpless laughter.

"He—he—he!" said the fisherman, forcing a faint laugh, to conceal his shame and vexation;—"never mind,—never mind that, Phil!" he said,—"my old head gets weak, or I might ha' been sure it would be a fool's errand. Was not it a mighty piece of impudence in that thief of a gamekeeper, think you, to tell us he had a mind to indict us for 'trespass,' as the Jack-in-office called it?—what harm could we do, Phil, by just trampling among the grass for a few minutes?"

"Poor folks are not allowed to tread upon rich folks' land, you know, Zed, without their leave," said the fiddler.

"No; but isn't it hard that there should be such a law, Phil?" said the fisherman.

"Why, as for that, Zed," replied Phil, "my godmother's grandfather,—who, my godmother used to tell me, was a famous scholar in his day,—used to say that all the land belonged to every body, and that nobody ought ever to have called an acre his own, in particular. If that had been the case, you see, Zed, the gamekeeper could not have threatened to indict you and me for trespass this morning."

"No more he could, Phil," rejoined Zed; "but, then, if the land belonged to every body,—in such a way that nobody could say an acre belonged to him, only,—why, how would the land be ploughed and the grain sown,—for you know the old saying, Phil, 'What's every body's business is nobody's business?'"

"My godmother's grandfather used to say that people ought to join in companies to do it," replied Phil: "it's a subject I am not master of to the extent he was, by all account; but I feel sure of one thing, Zed,—that the world could not have been much worse divided than it is at present, since the rich have so much land among them, and the poor have none."

"You are right there, Phil, beyond a grain o'doubt," rejoined Zed.

"And my godmother's grandfather used to say besides," continued the fiddler, "that God Almighty gave the world to every body, and that the rich had stolen the poor's share of the land—for God Almighty never left them destitute."

"Then, in that case, Phil," said the fisherman, "there is a share, each, belonging to you and to me: and then it seems doubly hard to be told, when your own share has been stolen from you, that you shall be indicted for trespassing upon the land of one that has more than his share—doesn't it, Phil?"

"Right, Zed, right!" returned Phil; "I'm pleased to find you relish a bit of sensible talk, now and then; and can you deny, now, that that plan of my godmother's grandfather would be a real good one, and tend to make every body happy. Place all the folks in the world on a level, Zed,—and let every man take his fair share in ploughing and tilling, you know, Zed,—and then let every man share in cutting the corn,—and all would have a fair title to eat it. You must see this to be fair—quite fair, Zed?"

"Fair enough, no doubt," replied the fisherman; "but then, Phil,—as I always ask you, but you never answer me,—how can you contrive to bring all this about?"

"Nay, now, you don't argue fair!" answered Phil; and it was the only answer he had, like many more learned proposers of good theories.

"A plague on all such gibberish!" exclaimed Zed, "we shall want but a small share of any thing long, and if we don't get our fair six feet of land when we have done sailing, why, we can rest very well in Davy Jones's locker. Where's the use of bothering our old brains with such crabbed matters?"

"Ods bobs and bodikins!" replied Phil, "but I think you are about right, Zed: I must own it's only a simple sort of a thing for you and I to be troubling our heads about great folks and their lands."

"I' faith, you talk sense, Phil!" said Zed; "confound the great folks! let 'em take their land! We've managed to push along through threescore summers and more, and we can manage to get through, I think, now. But, swape in, Phil! for we're just alongside Littleborough again, and I'm so hungry that I feel inclined to step on shore, and ask for a bite of the wedding-cake this morning: I'll warrant 'em they'll be keeping up the merriment yet."

"Promise me one thing, though, Zed," said Phil,—"that you'll take no more rum, if they offer it you, and that you won't stay longer than a couple of hours or so."

"Don't think I shall play the fool twice over!" retorted Zed; "I'll warrant it I'll come away as sober as a judge this time, and take no more fool's tricks into my head to-day."

"'Don't say so till you're sure!'" observed Phil, in his usual sly way; but Zed did not answer, for they were now at shore, and the fisherman had leaped out, and was once more mooring the little boat.

It is hardly necessary to relate that Zed found it impossible to keep his hasty promise of a very short stay, seeing that the "Weddingers" were "keeping it up" in true old-fashioned style, and Phil's fiddle became, right soon, the very soul of their merriment. Phil, however, had made his mind up, and succeeded, though with great effort, in getting his old companion once more fairly afloat and on the way home about an hour before sunset. Although Zed had, indeed, the virtue to refuse the parting cup of rum, when it was offered, yet his old noddle was far from being its own perfect master, by reason of his frequent revisitations of the ale-pottle; and the first mile on the water was all music of the most gleeful nature with the old voyagers. "Indeed," as Phil himself used to say, when talking about it, "we had each of us whetted our whistles till will-ye, nil-ye, we must pipe, and couldn't help it!" They were trolling forth, for the last time, their old burthen of

"Says I to myself, says I, Though I can't laugh, I won't cry; Let 'em kill us that dare; they're all fools that care: We all shall live till we die!"

when the report of a gun, and the sudden flight of a drooping heron across the Trent, arrested their music.

"By Jingo! she's a dead bird, in three minutes!" exclaimed Zed; "mark how her right wing droops, Phil!"

"I wish I could mark it," said Phil; "but you always forget that my poor old eyes are blanks, when you've——"

"There she goes, plop among the osiers!" cried Zed, in an ecstasy; "pull away to the larboard, Phil. I'll have her in a twink."

"'Don't say so till you're sure!'" observed Phil, but pulled away like a dragon in the direction recommended by his companion, nevertheless.

Zed leaped out of the boat in a confounded hurry, when he thought it was near enough for him to gain the shore; but he leaped out too soon, for he fell flat on his face among the "warp," as the mud of the Trent is called in Lincolnshire, and floundered like a flat fish when it has been left by the water in a situation where it cannot get away.

"Holloa! what, in the name o' bad luck, are you about?" cried Phil, hearing poor Zed make a mighty scuffle among the mud.

Zed made no answer, but kept struggling on; for the fact was, that he was so eager to secure the bird, that he had succeeded in laying hold of one of its legs, and, keeping hold, prevented himself from rising. The heron and Zed made a desperate flapping and floundering, insomuch that Phil roared out, more than once,—

"What, in the name of heaven and earth, are you about, I say, Zed?"

"Keep the boat in shore," cried Zed, with his mouth half filled with mud; "I shall have her in another minute."

"'Don't say so till you're sure!'" retorted Phil again; and just then the sportsman who had shot the heron jumped out of his boat on a firmer part of the strand, and, running along the bank, arrived at the spot where Zed was struggling with the bird. He struck off Zed's hold of the fowl with a slight blow from his fowling-piece, and bore away the bird in triumph. Zed slipped into the Trent, and went souse over head, but rose instantly, and clambered into the boat. He vented his disappointment and vexation against the sportsman in no very gentle terms, while the sportsman mocked him from the bank; and, when the captor of the heron stepped into his boat, Zed urged Phil to pull away, that they might capsize the fellow, and give him a ducking, as he said in his foolish haste. But Phil was always Zed's better angel, though he was but a blind old fiddler. "No, no, Zed," he cried, "you shall not go that way. Let us make for home, that you may get to the fire-side. I say you shall _not_ go—and I mean it, too."

Nobody in the world could control Zed Marrowby but Phil Garret, when old Zed was in his fuddled freaks; and even Phil could not always succeed; but Zed's wet shirt helped to cool his choler in this instance.

"To old Nick with the fellow, and his heron-sue!" cried Zed, pulling in the same direction with Phil; "I'll e'en let him take his live lumber: what good will it do him?"

"Just as the fox said of the grapes, when he couldn't reach 'em—'Hang 'em! they're as sour as crabs!'" rejoined Phil; "but that was what I said to myself, when you were struggling so hard to get the useless fowl; and what good would it have done you, Zed?"

"Hang me, if I know, exactly!" replied Zed, looking foolish, and wishing himself in a corner.

"You wouldn't like to eat a heron-sue, for they're as rank as stinking fish, I've heard say," continued Phil; "and what else you would have done with it I'm quite at a loss to guess: but never mind, Zed, you've got a cooler, now,—and I think you won't be so hot again for some time to come."

"Well, well, it's all in our lifetime," said Zed, resolving to be cheerful; "only pull away, and let us get to our own fire-side, that I may dry my old skin, there's a jolly fellow!"

"So I will, Zed," replied Phil, and doubled the force of his strokes at the oar; "but I hope you'll promise me not to resume your gold-digging when we land under the old castle-walls."

"I will, I will, Phil,—and so don't banter me any more; I shall be a cooler man for some time to come, after this, depend on't," answered Zed, with his teeth chattering.