“Terrible dry time, sir,” said the man as the horse sped along toward the park. “We out of the stables had all to go and help the gardeners two whole days watering.”
“Yes; the crops are suffering badly, my man.”
“They just are, sir. The lake’s half empty, and the fish getting sick, and Hayle says the boggy bits beyond the park where they get the snipe in winter’s nearly all dried up.”
“The conversation ended as the dog-cart was rattled up the lime avenue, and there, at the great porch, stood Sir John, the major, and Hayle the keeper.”
“Morning! Glad you’ve come,” said Sir John, shaking hands. “That will do, Smith.”
The groom, who was eager to know what was the matter, drove sulkily round to the stables, while Sir John took the doctor’s arm.
“Look here, Oldroyd,” he said; “the keeper has made a discovery in the bog wood over yonder.”
“Poacher shot!” exclaimed the doctor.
“Wait and see,” said Sir John, who was looking pallid; while the major had a peculiarly stern look in his fierce face.
Oldroyd bowed, and they walked rapidly across the park, and through some of the preserves. Then in and out among the pines till an open moorland patch was reached, dotted here and there with scrubby pines, and here Sir John turned.