Jasper rode through the gateway into the turnip field and remained watching the man with the hoe. The labourer drew near with his back turned, chopping away sedulously at the young weeds. Jasper knew him for Tom Stook of Bramble End, an odd hand who was taken on by the Benhams' bailiff when there was a press of work, or hay and corn to be gathered in.
Tom Stook was a very tall man with great bony limbs that seemed loosely slung at the joint sockets. He had a hawk's beak of a nose, a little tufted beard at the chin, and deep-set, cautious eyes. He kept on hoeing, as though he had not so much as glimpsed Jasper out of the corner of an eye.
"Well, Tom, Webster has found you a job, has he?"
Stook straightened his back, drew in his hoe, leant upon it, and regarded Jasper with a sort of cautious respect.
"Mornin', Master Jasper."
"Weeds bad?"
"Pretty tarrifyin'. Be'unt so bad down yon end."
Now Tom Stook was one of the most garrulous of rogues when gossip did not press too tenderly upon such personal matters as poaching and smuggling. He was a bit of a ruffian, sly, shrewd, and immensely strong. Folk had tales to tell about him and his lonely hovel of a cottage down by Bramble End.
Tom Stook hoed and talked, wagging his tuft of a beard, and throwing queer, spying glances at Jasper.
"No more beacons afire, sir?"