All was silent in the yard—the cattle sleeping on their beds of straw, and the fowls upon their wooden perches.
Seen by the pale moonlight the old farmhouse was a picture worthy of an artist’s pencil.
On the northern side of Oakfield ran a narrow lane, skirted by a dense mass of foliage, which threw the lane into sombre darkness. The lane itself rose abruptly as it neared the farm, which stood on the upland.
In this lane the forms of three men might be seen. The first of these is Charles Peace. Standing facing him is the notorious “cracksman” Ned Gregson, better known by the name of the “Bristol Badger.” The last of the three is known as “Cooney;” he is a tinker by trade, but he is a sort of jackal to rogues of a greater degree than himself.
The three men are in close converse. They had come suddenly to halt, as if doubtful as to their course of action.
“I tell yer it’s right as the mail,” observed the tinker, in a tone of confidence. “The farmers have sold their wheat, and there’s a mighty good ‘swag’ in the house. Only yer see, Ned, old boy, yer must not be too rash. Be keerful—be very keerful.”
“What do yer mean?” inquired the Badger.
“Well, it’s just this, old man, the farmers—leastways so I heerd at the ‘Six Bells’—have had two blokes with ’em to-day, a poppin’ at the blessed birds, bad luck to them; and from what I could gather from Tim, the two blokes are a stoppin’ there to-night.”
“What matters about that?” said Peace. “We don’t intend to wake the gentlemen.”
“All right—so much the better,” answered the tinker. “I’m for doing things in a quiet sort of way, I am.”