The young man gave him a sidelong glance, and laughed unpleasantly.
“Look here, Caleb Kent: you’re a smart-looking fellow. Go up to Trafalgar Square. You’ll find one of our sergeants there. Take the shilling, and they’ll make a man of you. You’ll be in my regiment, and I’ll stand your friend.”
“Thankye for nothing, captain. ’List so as to be out of your way, eh? Not such a fool.”
“Oh, very well then, only look out, sir. I’ll see that Sir John Day doesn’t let you off so easily next time you’re in trouble.”
“Ketch me first,” said the young man; and giving the pair an ugly, unpleasant look, he walked away.
“Not me,” he muttered. “I haven’t done yet; wait a bit.”
“No good, sir,” said the keeper, looking after the young poacher till he was out of sight. “Bad blood, sir; bad blood.”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Morning, Hayle. Er—Miss Hayle quite well?”
“Yes sir, thank you kindly,” said the keeper; and then, as the captain walked away, he trudged on through the woods, talking to himself.
“Miss Hayle,” he said, and he turned a bit red in the face. “Well, she is good enow for him or any man; but no, no, that would never do. Don’t be a fool, Ben, my lad: you don’t want trouble to come. Trouble,” he muttered, as he half cocked his gun, “why, I’d—bah!” he ejaculated, cooling down; “what’s the good o’ thinking things like that? Better pepper young Caleb. Damn him! he set me thinking it. Captain’s right enough. I like a man who’s fond of a bit of sport.”