“I been a long time, sir,” he explained, “but you know what that there Ted Barnes is. Slow to talk and wanting a power of persuading. But I got the address from ’im: ’ere it is, wrote on this paper.”
He handed Jim a slip of paper, upon which the address of a Kensington hotel was written. He was grinning triumphantly, as though he had performed some great service for his friend.
“Good lad,” said Jim. “That’s very smart of you. I say, Smiley: I’ve had the deuce of a time while you were in the village. I met my wife!”
The poacher smiled from ear to ear. “O Lordee!” he chuckled. “I reckon that ’ud give her a bit of a turn, like.”
Jim told him something of what had occurred, but Smiley’s attitude of frank amusement caused him to cut the story short; and it was not long before he brought the interview to an end.
As they shook hands at the edge of the wood, Smiley suddenly paused and raised his finger. “Did you hear anything?” he asked.
“No,” said Jim, after listening for a few moments.
“Thought I heard a step,” the poacher went on. “There’s a heap o’ tramps about these days. I seen ’em in the woods sometimes, but I don’t allow no one to poach there except me....”
He was in a loquacious mood, and Jim found it necessary to make a resolute interruption of the flow of his words by shaking him warmly by the hand once more and setting off down the dark lane in the direction of Oxford.