“Yes,” said Tom; “the painter made game of the game-dealer himself, and stuffed both himself, the landlords, and the bird-stuffer in first-rate style.”
“A pretty rogue, though,” said one of the farmers. “He wanted laying by the heels in the stocks for a few hours, and pelting wi’ mud.”
“Oh, trust him,” said Tom; “he’d get his deserts in the end. I never knew a dirty cur that went barking and nibbling horses’ heels, that did not get a clout on the head some day.”
As Tom said this, in came a countryman with a two-quart stone bottle, which he carried by a string tied by the neck. The landlord took the man’s money without an observation.
“You see that,” said one of the farmers; “our squire’s keepers complain dreadful of the decrease of their game in the woods there on the forest.”
“Ay, that they do,” said another, “and the cause is plain as daylight. It’s them gipsies camped there.”
“It’s one gipsy, a huge, dare-devil looking fellow,” said the first; “who lies in the straw all day, and turns out only at night. They should look out for him and nab him.”
“Ay, faith, but how?”
“Nothing easier,” said the first farmer. “This woodman lives in the cottage on the edge of the wood, just behind the gipsy camp. He’s in league with them, as I know. Every afternoon he calls here for the man’s ale—that’s his weakness—and every evening, punctually at eight o’clock, the big black fellow walks down there, and they empty that bottle together, and then it’s time for the poaching business.”
“Ay, how came you to find that out?” asked another.