"Oh, ah!" murmured my acquaintance. "Oh, ah! Maybe you was thinkin' of lookin' over it like?"
"I was—yes."
"Oh, ah! Well—there's some likes a bit o' danger."
"Danger?" I echoed. "To what danger do you refer?"
He surveyed me with cunning, old rheumy eyes, and:
"What about man-traps?" he inquired. "Ain't man-traps dangerous? And what about shot-guns? Shot-guns can make a party feel sick, can't they? Oh, ah!"
"But," I exclaimed, "you surely don't mean that there are traps laid in the grounds of the Park? It isn't legal. And why should any one shoot at visitors?"
"Maybe 'cause they're told to," he shouted. "Aye—that's the reason as like as not; 'cause they're told to."
"Who are 'they'?"
"Old Gipsy Hawkins as used to be Sir Burnham's under-keeper. What's he doin' of up there at Park all day? Layin' traps and such—that's what he's doin' of. My son Jim knows it, he do. My son Jim found one of 'em—and left best part of a pair of trousers in it, too!"