‘I’ll give in, keeper! I’ll give in. Doan’t ye harm the dog! he’s deaf as a post, you knows.’
‘I won’t harm him if you take him off, and come up quietly.’
This mysterious conversation was carried on with a human head, which peeped above the water, its arms supporting from beneath the growling cur—such a visage as only worn-out poachers, or trampling drovers, or London chiffonniers carry; pear-shaped and retreating to a narrow peak above, while below, the bleared cheeks, and drooping lips, and peering purblind eyes, perplexed, hopeless, defiant, and yet sneaking, bespeak their share in the ‘inheritance of the kingdom of heaven.’—Savages without the resources of a savage—slaves without the protection of a master—to whom the cart-whip and the rice-swamp would be a change for the better—for there, at least, is food and shelter.
Slowly and distrustfully a dripping scarecrow of rags and bones rose from his hiding-place in the water, and then stopped suddenly, and seemed inclined to dash through the river; but Tregarva held him fast.
‘There’s two on ye! That’s a shame! I’ll surrender to no man but you, Paul. Hold off, or I’ll set the dog on ye!’
‘It’s a gentleman fishing. He won’t tell—will you, sir?’ And he turned to Lancelot. ‘Have pity on the poor creature, sir, for God’s sake—it isn’t often he gets it.’
‘I won’t tell, my man. I’ve not seen you doing any harm. Come out like a man, and let’s have a look at you.’
The creature crawled up the bank, and stood, abject and shivering, with the dog growling from between his legs.
‘I was only looking for a kingfisher’s nest: indeed now, I was, Paul Tregarva.’
‘Don’t lie, you were setting night-lines. I saw a minnow lie on the bank as I came up. Don’t lie; I hate liars.’