“Arn’t no master of his’n now. Sacked nigh three months ago.”
Oldroyd stared.
“Here, I’m getting confused, my man. That poor fellow upstairs is a keeper, isn’t he?”
“Was, sir,” said Caleb Kent, with a grin; “but he arn’t now. He was out with us after the fezzans last night.”
“Hold your tongue,” growled one of the other men.
“Sha’n’t. What for? Doctor won’t tell on us.”
“Then it is as I thought. You are a gang of poachers, and the man upstairs is hand and glove with you.”
“Well, why not, sir. They sacked him, and no one wouldn’t have him, because he used once to do a bit o’ nights hisself ’fore he turned keeper. Man can’t starve when there’s hares and fezzans about.”
“Went a bit like out o’ spite,” said Caleb. “Hadn’t been out with us before.”
“Humph! and you come and fetch me and tell me this,” said Oldroyd. “How do you know that I shall not go and give notice to the police?”