and get something to eat. We
might as well see the fun out."

Suddenly the keeper passed them at a trot. "Who'm they to combe-bottom
for Lard's sake? Master'll be crazy," he said.

"Poachers simly," Stalky replied in the broad Devon that was the boy's
_langue de guerre_.

"I'll poach 'em to raights!" He dropped into the funnel-like combe,
which presently began to fill with noises, notably King's voice crying:
"Go on, Sergeant! Leave him alone, you, sir. He is executing my orders."

"Who'm yeou to give arders here, gingy whiskers? Yeou come up to the
master. Come out o' that wuzzy! [This is to the Sergeant.] Yiss, I
reckon us knows the boys yeou'm after. They've tu long ears an' vuzzy
bellies, an' you nippies they in yeour pockets when they'm dead. Come on
up to master! He'll boy yeou all you're a mind to. Yeou other folk bide
your side fence."

"Explain to the proprietor. You can explain, Sergeant," shouted King.
Evidently the Sergeant had surrendered to the major force.

Beetle lay at full length on the turf behind the Lodge, literally biting
the earth in spasms of joy. Stalky kicked him upright. There was nothing
of levity about Stalky or McTurk save a stray muscle twitching on the
cheek.

They tapped at the Lodge door, where they were always welcome. "Come
yeou right in an' set down, my little dearrs," said the woman. "They'll
niver touch my man. He'll poach 'em to rights. Iss fai! Fresh berries
an' cream. Us Dartymoor folk niver forgit their friends. But them
Bidevor poachers, they've no hem to their garments. Sugar? My man he've
digged a badger for yeou, my dearrs. 'Tis in the linhay in a box."

"Us'll take un with us when we're finished here. I reckon yeou'm busy.
We'll bide here an'--'tis washin' day with yeou, simly," said Stalky.
"We'm no company to make all vitty for. Never yeou mind us. Yiss.
There's plenty cream."

The woman withdrew, wiping her pink hands on her apron, and left them
in the parlor. There was a scuffle of feet on the gravel outside the
heavily-leaded diamond panes, and then the voice of Colonel Dabney,
something clearer than a bugle.

"Ye can read? You've eyes in your head? Don't attempt to deny it. Ye
have!"

Beetle snatched a crochet-work antimacassar from the shiny horsehair
sofa, stuffed it into his mouth, and rolled out of sight.

"You saw my notice-boards. Your duty? Curse your impudence, sir. Your
duty was to keep off my grounds. Talk of duty to _me_! Why--why--why, ye