We set off at a swinging pace down the hill, scattering the hosts. As we approached the fence that bounded the Mill fields, he exclaimed, “Hullo!”—and hurried forward. I followed him, and observed the dark figure of a man rise from the hedge. It was a game-keeper. He pretended to be examining his gun. As we came up he greeted us with a calm “Good-evenin’!”
George replied by investigating the little gap in the hedge.
“I’ll trouble you for that snare,” he said.
“Will yer?” answered Annable, a broad, burly, black-faced fellow. “An’ I should like ter know what you’re doin’ on th’ wrong side th’ ’edge?”
“You can see what we’re doing—hand over my snare—and the rabbit,” said George angrily.
“What rabbit?” said Annable, turning sarcastically to me.
“You know well enough—an’ you can hand it over—or——” George replied.
“Or what? Spit it out! The sound won’t kill me”—the man grinned with contempt.
“Hand over here!” said George, stepping up to the man in a rage.
“Now don’t!” said the keeper, standing stock still, and looking unmovedly at the proximity of George: