“That’ll do, I say. Now, cut.”
“When I like,” said the man, with a sneer. “Better let me marry her; the captain won’t.”
The keeper caught him by the throat.
“Will you keep that cursed tongue still!”
“No, I won’t,” cried the young man fiercely, and with a savage look in his eyes. “I know, even if I have been away. I know all about it. But I’m in that little flutter, Ben Hayle.”
“Curse you! hold your tongue, will you,” roared the keeper; and the dogs began to bark fiercely as he forced the young poacher back against a tree, but only to release him, as a quick sharp voice, called to the dogs, which dashed up to the new-comer, leaping to be caressed.
“Hallo! what’s up? You here again?”
Captain Robert Rolph, of The Warren, and of Her Majesty’s 20th Dragoon Guards, a well-set-up, athletic-looking fellow, scowled at the poacher, and the colour came a little into his cheeks.
“Oh yes, I’m back again, master.”
“Then take my advice, sir; go away again to somewhere at a distance.”