With Baptist Kettleby, to engage in a matter is to go through with it. ‘Hilary, thank God! Have you a pistol about you? Or better yet, your sword. A few words passed between him and the thief-taker as the latter came up; after which, all the party—with the exception of Quilt, who was left on shore —embarked within the wherry, which was pushed from the strand and rowed swiftly along the stream—for the tide was in its favour—by a couple of watermen. Only in the sunshine; they would not answer my whistle on cloudy days. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. Pausing with the intention of turning back, he glanced in the direction of the village church, the tower of which could just be seen through the trees. Take, if you please, your own pistol.
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