The keepers stared open-eyed at this last freak of the Squire's. They fancied they knew the ins-and-outs of their master pretty well by this time, but they were not prepared for this. Jack o' Ling Crag swore a soft oath, and decided that old Roger was a likelier man than he'd thought him. The Squire turned sharply.
"Who's that? Why, it's Jack o' Ling Crag, if I'm not mistaken. So we've got you at last, Jack, have we? Well, you've had a fair run."
"You're not going to run him in?" said Griff, quickly.
"Why not? He's the rankest poacher in the county."
"So am I, then."
"Oh, that's another matter! You do it for fun, God bless you! you're a sportsman—but Jack here does it by profession. I never could stand a man who does things by profession."
"All right, Squire," responded Griff; "we'll go together, Jack and I."
Old Roger looked hard at him, and saw that he meant it. He stamped up and down for a while; then—
"I'm a precious fool to do it, but, if you put it that way, Jack shall have a bit longer run. Off you go, the pair of you. I say, Lomax, by the way, you'd better come and dine with me."