“What became of the rascally poachers?” asked the Squire. “Who were they?”
“They got clean off, sir, every one on ’em. And they couldn’t be recognized; they had blackened their faces. Master Fred was the only one who had not disguised hisself, which was just like his boldness. They left the game behind ’em, your worship: a nice lot o’ pheasants and partridges. Pheasants too, the miscreants!—and October not in.”
There was not much more breakfast for us. Tod rushed off, and I after him. As Jones had said, the whole parish was ringing with the news, and we found people standing about in groups to talk. The particulars appeared to be as old Jones had related. Gisby, taking Shepherd—who was herdsman on the N. D. Farm—with him, and another man named Ford, had gone out to watch for poachers; had met half-a-dozen of them, including Fred Westerbrook, and Fred had shot Gisby.
The Silver Bear stood in the middle of Church Dykely, next door to Perkins the butcher’s. It was kept by Henry Rimmer. We made for it, wondering whether Rimmer could tell us anything. He was in the tap-room, polishing the taps.
“Oh, it’s true enough, young gentlemen!” he said, as we burst in upon him with questions. “And a dreadful thing it is. One can’t help pitying young Mr. Westerbrook.”
“Look here, Rimmer: do you believe he did it?”
“Why, in course he did, Master Johnny. There was no difficulty in knowing him: he was the only one of ’em not disguised. Shepherd says the night was as light as day. Gisby and him and Ford all saw young Mr. Westerbrook, and knew him as soon as the lot came in sight.”
“Was he at home here last evening?” asked Tod.
“He was at home here, sir, till after supper. He had been out in the afternoon, and came in to his tea between five and six. Then he stayed in till supper-time, and went out afterwards.”