248 THE SMUGGLER. 



"Don't call me Mr. Croyland," said the old gentleman, 

 abruptly; "call me Zachaiy, or Nabob, or Misanthrope, or 

 Bear, or anything but that. As to your question, I say, no. 

 I did not recognise you the least in the world. I saw in your 

 face something like the faces of old friends, and I liked it on 

 that account. But as for the rest of the matter, there's a 

 little secret, my boy; a little bit of a puzzle. By one way or 

 another, it matters not what, I had found out that Captain 

 Osborn was my old friend Layton's son ; but till I came here 

 to-day, I had no notion that he was colonel of the regiment, 

 and a Knight of the Bath to-boot, as your corporal fellow took 

 care to inform me. I thought you had been going under a 

 false name, perhaps, all this time, and fancied I should find 

 Captain Osborn quite well known in the regiment. I had a 

 shrewd notion, too, that you had sent for me to tell the secret ; 

 but I was determined to let you explain yourself without help- 

 ing you at all, for I'm a great deal fonder of men's actions 

 than their words, Harry." 



"Is it fair to ask, who told you who I was?" asked Sir 

 Henry Lay ton. " My friend Digby has some " 



" No, no," cried Mr. Croyland ; " it wan't that good, rash, 

 rattle-pate, coxcomb of a fellow, who is only fit to be caged 

 with little Zara; and then they may live together very well, 

 like two monkeys in a show-box. No, he had nothing to do 

 with it, though he has been busy enough since he came here ; 

 shooting partridges, and fighting young Radfords, and all that 

 sort of thing." 



"Fighting young Radfords!" exclaimed Sir Henry Lay ton, 

 suddenly grasping the sheath of his sword with his right hand. 

 "He should not have done that, at least, without letting me 

 know.' ' 



" Why, he knew nothing about it himself," replied Mr. 

 Croyland, "till the minute it took place. The young vaga- 

 bond followed him to my house ; so I civilly told my brother's 

 pet that I didn't want to see him ; and he walked away with 

 your friend Digby just across the lawn in front of the house, 

 when, after a few minutes of pleasant conversation, the baronet 

 applies a horsewhip, with considerable unction and perseverance, 

 to the shoulders of Richard Radford, Esquire, junior; upon 

 which out comes the picking-irons, and in the course of the 

 scuffle, Sir Edward receives a little hole in the shoulder, and 



