Murgatroyd drew out a brace of grouse from some hidden pockets and slapped them on the table. “Keep ’em awhile, widow, till they’re like to drop to bits. You relish ’em that way.”
“Hardcastle’s birds? Ay, they’ll be toothsome.”
She busied herself now, with entire goodwill, about the fire; and Murgatroyd looked up by and by from a steaming dish of eggs and bacon.
“You’d wipe out your chalks against me, widow, if I told you what I saw in Logie Woods. But, there, I’m not for telling.”
“What did ye see?”
“Nay, another noggin o’ rum wouldn’t draw it from me. There was Hardcastle of Logie in the woodmen’s hut.”
“Was there?” asked the widow, filling his glass afresh.
Murgatroyd took a wide gulp at the measure, and drained it. He was cold and weary.
“Not if you filled it afresh—and thank you, widow, for it does drive the wet out o’ one’s bones.”
“Hardcastle was in the hut,” said the woman.