“You know,” said he, quite indignant that the young man did not show his enthusiasm, “you told me I was to be sure and let you know, Mr. Yorke; but, of course, you needn’t make one of us unless you like.”

“Oh yes, I’ll come,” laughed the young fellow—­“that is, provided it is fine.  I can’t fight in the rain, even for the game laws.”

“It’ll be a lovely night, Sir, with just enough of moonlight to know friends from foes,” went on the keeper, rubbing his hands, and unconsciously moistening them in his excitement.  “I knew you’d come.  I said to myself:  ‘Mr. Yorke’ll never turn tail;’ and we shall be really glad of your help, for the fact is we are short-handed.  Napes is down with the rheumatics, and two of our men are away from home, and there ain’t time to send to the out-beaters.  So we shall be only nine—­including yourself—­in all.  Let’s see,” continued the old man, counting on his fingers:  “there’ll be Bill Nokes, and Robert Sloane, and—­”

“Spare me the roll-call, Grange,” interrupted the painter; “and tell me where I am to be, and when, and I’ll be there.”

“Very good, Sir,” said the keeper, musing.  “I’ll put you at the Squire’s oak—­the one as you drawed so nicely—­that’ll be at the Decoy down yonder, and close to home.  You have only to use this whistle, and you’ll get help enough if you chance to be set upon; there will be a fight, no doubt.  They must be a daring lot to poach the near park, within sound of the house:  they ain’t a done that these ten year; for the last time they brought Squire and his bull-dogs out, which was a lesson to one or two of ’em.  However, he’s for town, they say, to-day.”

“All right, Grange; we must do without him, then,” returned the young man, cheerfully.  “What time am I to be on guard?”

“You should be there at ten at latest, Sir.  There’ll be plenty of us within whistle-call, you understand.  But nobody will come aneist you as has any business there; so whoever you see you must go in at.”

Yorke nodded, smiling, and doubling his white fists, hit out scientifically with his right.

“You’re one after the Squire’s own heart,” exclaimed the keeper, admiringly; “and I do wish you could foregather with him.  What a reach of arm you’ve got, and what a play of muscle!  The fist is the weapon for a poacher—­that is, I mean agin him—­if you only know how to use it.  I can depend on the Decoy being guarded by ten, Sir, can I? for I must be off to the head-keeper’s with the rest.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Then, good-by, Sir, for the present.”

“Now what a poor fool is that!” soliloquized the young painter, contemptuously, as the door closed upon his late companion.  “To think that I should risk my life against a poacher’s on even terms!  Of course, if they suffice, I shall only treat him to my knuckles; but if not—­if he be a giant, or there be more than one of them—­then here is a better ally than mere bone and sinew.”  Yorke took out of a drawer a life-preserver, made of lead and whalebone, struck with it once, to test its weight and elasticity, then slipped it into his shooting-jacket pocket.  “That will enlarge their organs of locality,” said he, grimly; “they will not forget the Decoy Pond in a hurry whose heads knock against this.”