“Just heard it from our policeman, sir, who has been out all night. Pete Warboys has been for long enough mixed up with the Sanding gang, and was out with them last night over at Brackenbury Park, when the keepers come upon them, and there was a fight. One of the keepers was shot in the legs, and two of the poachers was a good deal knocked about. They were mastered, and four of ’em are in the lock-up.”
“But you said Pete was taken.”
“Yes, sir, he’s one of ’em; and that arn’t the worst of it.”
“Then what is?”
“His dog flew at one of the keepers when they were holding Pete Warboys, and the man shot him dead.”
“Poor wretch!” said Tom.
“Ay, I’m real sorry about that dog, sir. He was a hugly one surelie, but just think what a dog he’d ha’ been if he’d been properly brought up.”
The news was true enough; and fresh tidings came the very next day to Heatherleigh, Uncle Richard hearing that his brother had disposed of his practice, and gone to live down at Sandgate for his health.
Then, as the days glided by, the report came of examinations before the magistrates, which the Vicar attended.
“I went, Tom,” he said, “because I was grieved about the young man, for I tried again and again to wean him from his life; but nothing could be done—everything was too black against him. He and the others have been committed for trial, and Pete is sure to be severely punished.”