“What does it all mean?” said Nic to himself. “Why, I do believe Pete is going to tell me that he wants to be married, and to ask if my father will object.”
He reached the combe, to find Pete, now a fine sturdy-looking Devon man in brown velveteen jacket and leather gaiters, counting the salmon in the pool.
Pete turned sharply directly he heard Nic approach, and the serious look in the man’s face told that something unusual had occurred.
“Morn’, Master Nic, zir.”
“What is it, Pete? Surely you don’t mean that we’ve had poachers again?”
“Poachers it be, zir,” said the man mysteriously; “but they won’t come here again. Master Nic, there’s three on ’em come back, and I’ve zeen ’em.”
“What! From the plantation?”
“Yes, zir; after a long spell of it they managed to give the dogs zome poison stuff they got out of the woods. The blacks told ’em of it. Manshy something it was.”
“Manchioneel! I know,” said Nic.
“That’s it, zir, and it killed ’em. They got away in a boat—a new un, I s’pose.”