"None better," was the reply; "it's thick with game, sir, it is for sure—and nobody to profit, only"—he winked at the landlord—"young Jim Corder!"
The landlord emitted a deep grunt which was evidently recognized by the other as a laugh; for he himself laughed in a wild and not wholly pleasant manner, whereby I concluded that "young Jim Corder" was a standing joke in the neighborhood.
"You look as though you knew a hare from a partridge," said I, "so I'll take your word for it."
This remark provoked a second and deeper growl from the landlord and a further burst of outlandish laughter from my acquaintance, the game-keeper. Presently:
"Why, sir, if I tell you," declared the latter, "them birds all know me like I was their father, they do. I says, 'Good morning' regular and them birds all bows to me, they does."
When the laughter had subsided, scenting possible information:
"I gather," said I, "that you get few shooting-parties nowadays?"
Gloom descended upon both my gossips.
"You're right, you are, sir," replied the game-keeper. "He's right, ain't he, Martin?"
Martin, the landlord, growled. It occurred to me that he regarded the other with a certain disfavor.