"Guessing isn't enough," I replied. "But if you could be sure, it would be far better to let the man know that you have discovered him. You'll never get anything out of these Sussex people by knuckling under to them."
I was sorry for the words as soon as I had said them, for it was an insulting speech to a man in his position; but I wouldn't show any humility.
"Thank you," he answered, coldly. "I must do the best I can, of course, in managing the Sussex people. But, anyhow, it is I who have to do it."
I would not see the just reproof. "Well, if any one is to blame in this it isn't poor old Reuben," I declared, stoutly; "he's obstinate, but he isn't mean. It might be Jack Barnstaple. I don't say it is, but it might be. It isn't Reuben."
"I am quite of your opinion," answered he. "But as you say, guessing is of no avail, so we had best let the matter drop."
He turned to go one way and I the other. But just as we were parting, Reuben appeared upon the crest of the hill with Luck at his heels. They were inseparable companions. Luck was the one sign of his former calling that still clung to poor old Reuben. But he was very old, older than his master; both had done good work in their day, but both were nearly past work now.
"That dog will have to be shot soon," said Trayton Harrod, looking at the way the poor beast dragged itself along, stiff with rheumatism, which the damp weather had brought out. "I told Reuben so the other day."
"Shot!" cried I, with angry eyes. "No one shall shoot that dog while I have a word to say in the matter."
And I ran across to where Luck was coming to meet me, his tail wagging with pleasure.
"Poor old Luck! poor old fellow!" I murmured, stooping to caress him. "They want to shoot you, do they? But I won't allow it."