“Why?”
“Because he is a poor, hunted devil of a poacher like me!” cried the Lizard, angrily. “He must live; there’s enough land in Finistère for us both.”
“How long has he been here in Paradise?”
“For two months.”
“And he told you he lived by poaching?”
“Yes.”
“He lies.”
The Lizard looked at me intently.
“He has played you; he is a thief, and he has come here to rob. He is a filou—a town rat. Can he bend a hedge-snare? Can he line a string of dead-falls? Can he even snare enough game to keep himself from starving? He a woodsman? He a poacher of the bracken? You are simple, my friend.”
The veins in the poacher’s neck began to swell and a dull color flooded his face.