At last Mr. Dance finished the story.
"Mr. Dance," said the squire, "you are a very noble fellow. And as for riding down that black, atrocious miscreant, I regard it as an act of virtue, sir, like stamping on a cockroach. This lad Hawkins is a trump, I perceive. Hawkins, will you ring that bell? Mr. Dance must have some ale."
"And so, Jim," said the doctor, "you have the thing that they were after, have you?"
"Here it is, sir," said I, and gave him the oilskin packet.