“Didn’t you see, sir?”
“I did,” cried Mercer. “It was old Magglin.”
“Yes, and I’ll Magglin him!” cried Bob wrathfully.
“What’s he been doing?” I said. “Poaching?”
“Eh? Yes, sir, poaching, that’s what he’s been up to,” said Bob, with a side glance at Polly, who threw her apron over her face, burst out laughing, and ran into the cottage. “He’ve been told over and over again to keep away, but it’s no good, so I’ve started this here hazel saplin’ for him and I’ve been beating his carpet for him nicely. I don’t think he’ll come any more.”
“What does he come poaching after, Bob—the sweets?” said Mercer.
“Um! Yes, the sweets,” said Bob drily; “and he ain’t going to have ’em. A lazy, poaching, dishonest scoundrel, that’s what he is. I did think we’d got rid of him lots o’ times, but he’s like a bad shilling, he always comes back. Well, never mind him, sir. When are you coming to have a day’s fishing? Sir Orkus told me only t’other day you was to be looked after if you come.”
“Oh, some day soon,” I said. “We’ve got a big cricket match coming on first.”
“Ay? Well, I must come and see that, young gents. I used to be fond of bowling myself.”
We shook hands with the keeper, and then went into the cottage to buy a couple of Polly’s turnovers, and found her looking very red-faced and shy, but she was businesslike enough over taking the money, and we went off browsing down the lane upon Polly’s pastry and blackberry jam.