“I don’t think he would kick me down his Hall steps,” said Yorke, grimly.

The keeper grinned.  “Well, you see, nobody can tell that till it’s tried.  The Squire is a regular bruiser, I promise you, though I grant you are a strapping young fellow, and you have told me that you know how to use your fists.  That’s a great thing, mind you, for a man to ha’ learnt; a deal better than Latin or such-like, in my opinion.  Folks talk of life-preservers and pistols, but there’s nothing like a good pair of well-handled fists when one has to tackle a poacher.  I’ve been at Crompton, man and boy, these fifty years, and had a good many rough-and-tumbles with that sort, and I have never had the worst of it yet.  It prevents bloodshed on both sides; for if you haven’t no shooting-iron, there’s few Englishmen, poachers or not, who will draw trigger on you; and as for a bludgeon, it’s as likely to be in my hand as another’s after the first half minute.”

“Is there much poaching now at Crompton?” inquired Yorke, mechanically.  It would have been plain to any less obtuse observer than his companion that he no longer gave him his attention.

“Well, no; nothing to be called serious has happened lately; though I dare say we shall have some scrimmages as the winter comes on; there’s allus a good deal of what I calls hanky-panky work in the fawn season.  Women and children—­especially children—­will come into the park, under pretense o’ picking up sticks; and they’ll put away a new dropped fawn in their bundles, if they get the chance; and then they take it home, to be reared until it grows up, and can be sold for venison.”

“I should have thought there would have been no market for such a commodity—­that is, in the case of people such as you describe,” observed Yorke, yawning.

“Market!” echoed the keeper, contemptuously; “there’d be a market to-morrow morning for the whole herd o’ our wild-cattle, if they were stolen to-night; there’d be a market for a rhinoceros or a halligator, if we happened to keep ’em, bless ’ee, as easy as for a sucking pig!  But I don’t call that poaching—­I mean the fawn-stealing.  It’s the professionals from the Midland towns as come by tens and twenties at a time as is our trouble.  We generally gets wind of ’em beforehand, and then out we all goes, and Squire with us—­for he dearly loves a fight—­and then there’s broken crowns and bloody noses; but, thank God, there’s been no murder done, at least, not in my time, at Crompton.  And that reminds me, Sir, that it’s time for me to start on my evening rounds.”

“Well, when you next have any news of such an incursion, Grange, I hope you will let me make one of your party,” said Yorke, good-humoredly.  “I can hit out straight from the shoulder; and perhaps I might get to know the Squire that way.”

“And as likely a road to lead you into his good graces, Sir,” said the keeper, rising, “as any I know.  Are you for a walk round the park this fine evening, Sir?”