THE POACHERS.
SHALL we explain to our readers what it was that made Tom Haines "trouble himself," as Mr. King called it, about Frank Hardy? The reason was simply this. Tom was mixed up with the gang of poachers of whom Walter's mother had spoken as infesting the preserves on Squire Forbes' estate.
Now, it so happened that the Mill Cottage was a place where the stolen game could be very conveniently deposited, as nothing was easier than to bring the spoil through the woods down to the other side of the stream which ran at the end of the Hardys garden, and then to convey it across in the boat, which was always lying there. This done, the stolen game was concealed among some thick bushes in the garden until it was transferred to the care of a carrier, whose tilted cart passed the end of the little lane before daybreak every other day on its way to a distant market town.
The carrier was in league with the poachers, so there was no difficulty about him; the only thing was, how to secure the services of the Hardys.
"Leave that to me," Tom Haines had said; and he soon managed the matter.
He began by flattering Frank, who was weak enough to be flattered by the notice taken of him by one so much older than himself, and then, when once he had got Frank to commit himself, and to take part in one of their midnight excursions, and even to accept a sum of money as his share in the spoil, he turned round upon him, and dared him to refuse to do anything he bid him.
"You are in my power now, Frank," said Tom.
And Frank knew it only too well, and became the tool of Haines and his associates. At all times the bondage was very bitter; and some seasons there were, too, when better thoughts would come over Frank, and he would have given anything to have been free, to have been like Walter, whose sunny face and blithe whistle would, at such moments, add to Frank's miserable feelings.
"I never whistle like that now," he would say to himself; "once I used to, but now—"
Yes, but that "once" was before Frank had sold himself to work wickedness, since which time there had been no real happiness for him.