“I’ve a net in my pocket which I took from a gate about an hour ago. I saw summat was afoot, and me and a friend o’ mine have been looking for ’ee. Now let’s have your name and no nonsense.”
“My name,” said Dan, “my name? Well, it is ... Piper.”
“Piper is it, ah! Was you baptized ever?”
“Peter,” said Dan savagely.
“Peter Piper! Well, you’ve picked a tidy pepper-carn this time.”
Again he was searching his pockets. There was a frown on his face. “You’d better lend me a bit o’ pencil too.”
Dan produced a stump of lead pencil and the gamekeeper, smoothing the paper on his lifted knee, wrote down the name of Peter Piper.
“And where might you come from?” He peered up at the miserable man, who replied: “From Leasington”—naming a village several miles to the west of his real home.
“Leasington!” commented the other. “You must know John Eustace, then?” John Eustace was a sporting farmer famed for his stock and his riches.
“Know him!” exclaimed Dan. “He’s my uncle!”