"I shan't want a coney-catcher," declared Malherb.
"Not regular, not regular; but off an' on, when the varmints get too free. There's other things, too. There's grays—or badgers, as you'd call 'em; there's pole-cats, an' martin-cats, an' hawks, an' owls, not to name foxes."
"Foxes?" said Malherb, frowning.
"Plenty of 'em; an' I gets six-an'-eightpence for a fox. You'll always find 'em hanging up on the yew tree in the churchyard, so that all the parish on its way to worship 'pon Sundays may see I earn my money."
"Kill foxes?"
"All varmints, your honour—from a hoop[*] to a hedge-pig."
[*] Hoop: A bullfinch.
"The man who kills foxes will never earn a shilling from me," thundered Malherb. "Out of my sight, you old miscreant! Kill foxes! What is Tyrwhitt about? I'd hang you to the church yew yourself if I had my way. Honest foxes to be killed by a clown!"
Leaman Cloberry regarded the angry settler without flinching.
"If you're that sort, your people be likely to have uneasy dreams," he said. "As to foxes, there'll be plenty for you an' the likes of you to run after on horseback—no need to fear that. I've killed but ten dogs an' two vixens in cub this year. I lay you'll meet more foxes around your hen-roosts up-along than you'll find time to hunt. Then you'll be sorry you growed so fiery against me."