“Schist?” inquired the poacher, lifting his tired eyes to me. I nodded. So he brought a jug of cold, sweet cider, and we all drank long and deeply, each in turn slinging the jug over the crooked elbow.
The poacher rose, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and made straight for his new gun.
“You two,” he said, with a wave of his arm, “you settle it among yourselves. Jacqueline, is it true that Le Bihan saw woodcock dropping into the fen last night?”
“He says so.”
“He is not a liar—usually,” observed the poacher. He touched his beret to me, flung the fowling-piece over his shoulder, picked up a canvas bag in which I heard cartridges rattling, stepped into his sabots, and walked away. In a few moments the hysterical yelps of a dog, pleased at the prospect of a hunt, broke out from the net-shed.
Jacqueline placed the few dishes in a pan of hot water, wiped her fingers, daintily, and picked up Ange Pitou, who promptly acknowledged the courtesy by bursting into a crackling purring.
“Show me the swimming-suit,” she said, shyly.
I drew it out of the satchel and laid it across my knees.
“Oh, it has a little tail behind—like a fish!” she cried, enchanted. “I shall look like the silver grilse of Quimperlé!” 202
“Do you think you can swim in those scales?” I asked.