"Maybe they'll not be fur letting me see her."
"That's certain. You have got to fox them if you can."
"Sure."
"You'll find me at the Queen's Head, Sedlescombe."
"I'll lock up t' house and go this very hour."
David, like many a quiet and rather dour old man, had had his adventures as a youngster. Orchard-raiding, smuggling, poaching, had all come easily, and he had retained that primitive rustic cunning that is never wholly lost despite a bent back and the Bible. Jeremy had told him of the charcoal-burners in Yew-Tree Wood and of Tom Stook lying in ambush like a great lean hound. David knew Tom Stook, and Tom Stook knew David. They were dogs who had poached and ratted together.
David made for Yew-Tree Wood that morning, and found Tom Stook lying along the limb of an oak with a bottle under his chin, for it was July and hot weather. They gave and received explanations, grinning solemnly at each other under the shade of the trees.
"De Rothan be gone Guestling way."
"Sure?"
"I saw him go out on his nag. To get a word wid t' lady—be that it?"