"We've got two of 'em, Squire," said a keeper.
"Eh? Got what?" he muttered, still dazed.
"Two of the poaching wastrels."
The Squire looked at Griff and grinned.
"Wastrels, say you? Well, if you feel that way, I'll watch while any one of you four have a go at our friend there. You don't seem anxious. Let him free, then, you fools, and don't sit on his chest as if he was a damned armchair."
Griff, freed from constraint, leaped to his feet; he began to think that there was hope for him yet if he had to deal with Roger Daneholme.
"What's your name?" queried the Squire, taking a long pull at his flask.
"Griff Lomax."
"What, Joshua Lomax's son? Gad, I wish he'd been alive to see you fight! I knew him well; we were lads together, and many a night he's helped me to take my father's game. That's it, you see. The light's a bit queer down in the wood here, and I thought you were Walter, my son. Time and again I've tried to spot him at the old game—runs in the family, you'll observe—and I wanted to see if I was a match for him yet. You're about his build and height—but, by hell, you've a better notion of your fists! I never knew a cleaner shot than that you felled me with—not that I saw it very clearly—but it was such a devilish kingdom-come blow for me. Lomax, I'm proud to meet you."