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 “Can that be Joe Scott?”

“Ay, ay!” returned another voice, for the gig contained two persons, as was seen by the glimmer of its lamp—the men with the lanterns had now fallen into the rear, or rather the equestrians of the rescue-party had outridden the pedestrians. “Ay, Mr. Moore, it’s Joe Scott. I’m bringing him back to you in a bonny pickle; I fand him on the top of the moor yonder, him and three others. What will you give me for restoring him to you?”

“Why, my thanks, I believe; for I could better have afforded to lose a better man. That is you, I suppose, Mr. Yorke, by your voice?”

“Ay, lad, it’s me. I was coming home from Stilbro’ market, and just as I got to the middle of the moor, and was whipping on as swift as the wind (for these, they say, are not safe times, thanks to a bad government!) I heard a groan. I pulled up, some would have whipt on faster; but I’ve naught to fear, that I know of. I don’t believe there’s a lad in these parts would harm me, at least I’d give them as good as I got if they offered to do it. I said, ‘Is there aught wrong anywhere?’—‘&thinsp;’Deed is there,’ somebody says, speaking out of the ground, like. ‘What’s to do? be sharp, and tell me,’ I ordered.—“Nobbut four on us ligging in a ditch,’ says Joe, as quiet as could be. I tell’d ’em, more shame to ’em, and bid them get up and move on, or I’d lend them a lick of the gig-whip; for my notion was, they were all fresh.—‘We’d