"He was."
The three poachers crept a little apart; they were loth to hear young Lomax condemn himself so openly.
"Then what have ye to say for yourseln?"
Griff, once he was roused, was stubborn as a mule. He kicked against little Jefferson's domineering tone, and he resented the facile way in which these comrades of his had given their verdict against him at a word from a man like Strangeways.
"Nothing; I've nothing to say," he repeated. "There's plenty that I could say, but nothing that I will; so put that in your pipe, Dave Jefferson, and smoke it till you're sick."
A low murmur rose from the company—only the poachers were silent.
"That means fighting, I fancy," said Lomax, after another long pause. "There are twenty-two of you, so far as I can count, and that's rather long odds. But it happens that you have three sound men amongst you." He stopped to look the three poachers square between the eyes. "You, Will Reddiough—and you, Jack o' Ling Crag—and you, Ned Kershaw—you'll all take an honest man's word against a cur's like Strangeways here. Have I dealt fair by you in the past?"
Those three purloiners of their neighbours' game warmed to the man's pluck.
"Ay, that ye hev, Mr. Lummax."