“You bain't goin', sir!” said the keeper.
“Yes, keeper.”
“Not along wi' he?”
“Yes, keeper.”
“What, bain't I to take un?”
“Take him! No, what for?”
“For night poachin', look at all them fish,” said the keeper indignantly, pointing to the shining heap.
“No, no, keeper, you've nothing to do with it. You may give him the lines though, Harry. I've left a note for your master on my dressing table,” Tom said, turning to the footman, “let him have it at breakfast. I'm responsible for him,” nodding at Harry, “I shall be back in a few hours, and now come along.”
And, to the keeper's astonishment, Tom left the stable-yard, accompanied by Harry.
They were scarcely out of hearing before the stable-yard broke out into uproarious laughter at the keeper's expense and much rude banter was inflicted on him for letting the poacher go. But the keeper's mind for the moment was full of other things. Disregarding their remarks he went on scratching his head, and burst out at last with—