“Goodness bless me!” cried the Squire, dropping his knife and fork, and turning to face old Jones. “How on earth did it happen?”
“Well, your worship, ’twere a poaching affray,” returned Jones. “Gisby the bailiff have had his suspicions o’ the game, and he went out last night with a man or two, and met the fellows in the open field on this side the copse. There they was, in the bright moonlight, as bold as brass, with a bag o’ game, Master Fred Westerbrook the foremost on ’em. A fight ensued—Gisby don’t want for pluck, he don’t, though he be undersized, and he attacked ’em. Master Fred up with his gun and shot him.”
“Is Gisby dead?”
“No, sir; but he’s a-dying.”
“What a fool that Fred Westerbrook must be!” stormed the Squire. “And I declare I liked the young fellow amazingly! It was only last night, Jones, that we were talking of him here, taking his part against his uncle.”
“He haven’t been after much good, Squire, since he went to live at that there Silver Bear. Not but what the inn’s as respectable——”
“Respectable!—I should like to know where you would find a more respectable inn, or one better conducted?” put in Tod, with scant ceremony. “What do you mean, old Jones? A gentleman can take up his abode at the Silver Bear, and not be ashamed of it.”
“I have nothing to say again’ it, sir; nor against Rimmer neither. It warn’t the inn I was reflecting on, but on Master Fred himself.”
“Anyway, I don’t believe this tale, Jones.”
“Not believe it!” returned Jones, aghast at the bold assertion. “Why, young Mr. Todhetley, the whole parish is a-ringing with it. There’s Gisby a-dying at Shepherd’s—which was the place he were carried to, being the nearest; and Shepherd himself saw young Mr. Fred fire off the gun.”