“Yes, doctor, she’s gettin’ over it,” said Hayle, one day when Oldroyd met him close to Brackley. “But she’s had a near shave. It’s you, though, as saved her life, same as you did mine.”
“I’m glad she’s better, I’m sure,” said Oldroyd. “And you—do you ever feel your old wound?”
“Oh, yes, just a twinge or two when the weather changes. But Sir John’s very kind, and things go very easy with me now, thanks to you, sir—thanks to you.”
“Oh, all right, Hayle, all right. Got a good show of pheasants this winter? Plenty left?”
“Heaps, sir. Oh, you may trust me. I look pretty sharp after ’em, I can tell you. I know, I do.”
The great dark fellow gave a solemn wink as he stood before Oldroyd, in his brown velveteen coat and buttons, with a capital double gun under his arm.
“Yes, I suppose you do,” said the doctor. “Game-keeping is better than poaching, eh?”
“When you’ve got a good master, sir. But, look here, sir, when are you coming over? Sir John said you were last week.”
“As soon as I can; too busy yet.”
“When you do, sir, you shall have as fine a bit o’ shooting as a gentleman could wish to have. Talk about a warm corner, sir; it shall be the best in the whole preserves.”