“Good-morning, Jocelyn,” said the young man, stepping briskly to the bank of the stream; “I want a word or two with you.”
“Words are cheap,” said Jocelyn, sitting up on his haunches; “how many will you have, Mr. Gordon?”
“I want you,” said Gordon, slowly emphasizing each word, “to stop your depredations on my property, once and for all.”
Squatting there on the dead grass, Jocelyn eyed him sullenly without replying.
“Do you understand?” said Gordon, sharply.
“Well, what’s the trouble now—” began Jocelyn, but Gordon cut him short.
“Trouble! You’ve shot out every swale along Brier Brook! There isn’t a partridge left between here and the lake! And it’s a shabby business, Jocelyn—a shabby business.”
He flung his fowling-piece into the hollow of his left arm and began to walk up and down the bank.
“This is my land,” he said, “and I want no tenants. There were a dozen farms on the property when it came to me; I gave every tenant a year’s lease, rent free, and when they moved out I gave them their houses to take down and rebuild outside of my boundary-lines. Do you know any other man who would do as much?”
Jocelyn was silent.