In the still air of the frosty March evening the hoarse whisper came clearly to Jack's ears:
"In course; there was his dog."
"I knows that. But I seed another man, all in black, with his hat over his eyes and his face all swaddled up: Goodman hisself, maybe."
"Well, I be gwine home along. I've got a score o' pellets somewhere about my legs, and they'll p'ison my blood less I pick 'em out soon."
"Ay true, and we'll go lame for a month or more. Chok' it all! Who'd ha' thowt old Joe would ha' bin so fierce!"
As they were moving away, a gig rattled up and stopped.
"'Tis Mr. Gudgeon, so 'tis," Jack heard a rough voice say.
"Not so loud!" was the hasty answer. "What luck, lads?"
"None at all, and be hanged to it. We've not got nowt but a trouncing, Mr. Gudgeon."
"Lower, speak lower, man. What happened?"