“Bit lonely here,” I said.

“Rumble’s Moor on a wet Friday’s busy to it,” he said emphatically.  “Is it reet the War’s over?”

“Yes.”

He puffed his pipe for a few minutes while the information soaked in.

“Who won?”

“The Peace Conference haven’t decided yet.”

Conversation languished until I remembered the guide-book.

“According to tradition,” I said, “it was at this identical spot that ROLLO, first Duke of Normandy, hung his golden chain on a sign-post for a whole year without having it stolen.”

“Tha-at ud be afore we brought our Chinese Labour gang felling timber,” he said firmly; “I wudden give it five minutes now.”

“I understand, too, that there is a historic ruin hereabouts.”

“Theer was,” he said; “but he’s in hospital.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ratty Beslow; my owd colleague an’ sparring pardner.  It’s ’im you weer talking of, ain’t it?”

“It wasn’t; but I’m interested in him,” I said, sitting down on a pile of logs.  “How did he get to hospital?”

“Through a mistake in Nacheral ‘Istory.  You see, me an’ Ratty had been in th’ War a goodish time an’ ha-ad lost our o-riginal ferociousness.  So they put us to this Chink Labour gang for a rest-cure.  Likewise Ratty ‘ad got too fa-amous as a timber-scrounger oop th’ line, and it was thought that if ‘e was left in th’ middle of a forest, wheer it didn’t matter a dang if he scrounged wood fra’ revally to tattoo, it might reform him.  But it was deadly dull.  We tried a sweepstake f’r th’ one as could recognise most Chinks at sight, and a raffle for who could guess how many trees in a circle; but there wasn’t much spice in it.  So at last Ratty suggested we should try a bit o’ poaching.

“‘Ah doan’t know th’ first thing about it,’ I says; ’Ah’m town bred.  Nobbut Ah could knock a few rabbits over if Ah’d got a Lewis gun handy.’

“‘Rabbuts be danged!’ says he; ’Ah’ve no use f’r such vermin.  Theer’s stags, so Ah’ve heerd tell, in this forest.’

“‘Ah wudden say no to a haunch o’ venison,’ I answered; ’but stags is artillery work.’

“‘They is not,’ says Ratty.  ‘Nor yet rifles nor bombs.’

“‘Ah s’pose you stops theer holes an’ puts in a ferret,’ says I, sarcastic; ’or else traps ’em wi’ cheese.’

“‘That’s the only kind o’ hunting you’ve bin used to,’ replies Ratty.  ‘Stags is caught wi’ tactics, a trip-wire an’ a lasso.’

“‘Well, la-ad,’ I says, ‘you’d best do th’ lassoing.  I doan’t know the habits o’ stags.’

“Ratty scrounges a prime rope fra’ somewheers, an’ we creeps out after nightfall.  It was a dree night, the owd bracken underfoot damp an’ sodden, an’ th’ tall firs looking grim an’ gho-ostly in th’ gloom.  Soon theer was a crackling o’ twigs, like a tank scouting on tiptoe.

“‘Bosch patrol half-left!’ whispers I.

“‘Stow it, you blighter,’ says Ratty.  ’This is serious.  Can’t you see th’ stag?’