The husband, more than the wife, looks incredulous. Is the priest jesting? Beneath the froc, fitting tight his thin spare form, there is nothing to indicate the presence of either fish or bird.
“Where are they?” asks Murdock mechanically. “You say you’ve brought them along?”
“Ah! that was metaphorical. I meant to say I had sent them. And if I mistake not, they are near now. Yes; there’s my messenger!”
He points to a man making up the glen, threading his way through the tangle of wild bushes that grow along the banks of the rivulet.
“Coracle Dick!” exclaims Murdock, recognising the poacher.
“The identical individual,” answers the priest, adding, “who, though a poacher, and possibly has been something worse, is not such a bad fellow in his way—for certain purposes. True, he’s neither the most devout nor best behaved of my flock; still a useful individual, especially on Fridays, when one has to confine himself to a fish diet. I find him convenient in other ways as well; as so might you, Monsieur Murdock—some day. Should you ever have need of a strong hard hand, with a heart in correspondence, Richard Dempsey possesses both, and would no doubt place them at your service—for a consideration.”
While Murdock is cogitating on what the last words are meant to convey, the individual so recommended steps upon the ground. A stout, thick-set fellow, with a shock of black curly hair coming low down, almost to his eyes, thus adding to their sinister and lowering look. For all a face not naturally uncomely, but one on which crime has set its stamp, deep and indelible.
His garb is such as gamekeepers usually wear, and poachers almost universally affect, a shooting coat of velveteen, corduroy smalls, and sheepskin gaiters buttoned over thick-soled shoes iron-tipped at the toes. In the ample skirt pockets of the coat—each big as a game-bag—appear two protuberances, that about balance one another—the present of which the priest has already delivered the invoice—in the one being a salmon “blotcher” weighing some three or four pounds, in the other a young cock pheasant.
Having made obeisance to the trio in the grounds of Glyngog, he is about drawing them forth when the priest prevents him, exclaiming:—
“Arretez! They’re not commodities that keep well in the sun. Should a water-bailiff, or one of the Llangorren gamekeepers chance to set eyes on them, they’d spoil at once. Those lynx-eyed fellows can see a long way, especially on a day bright as this. So, worthy Coracle, before uncarting, you’d better take them back to the kitchen.”