Luke, indeed, somehow or other was always in favour with the ‘quality.’  He was as firmly fixed in his business as if he had been the most clever courtier.  It was not of the least use for any one else to offer to take the rabbits, even if they would give more money.  No, Luke was the trusty man; Luke, and nobody else, was worthy.  So he grovelled on from year to year, blinking about the place.  When some tenant found a gin in the turnip field, or a wire by the clover, and quietly waited till Luke came fumbling by and picked up the hare or rabbit, it did not make the slightest difference though he went straight to the keeper and made a formal statement.

Luke had an answer always ready:  he had not set the wire, but had stumbled on it unawares, and was going to take it to the keeper; or he had noticed a colony of rats about, and had put the gin for them.  Now, the same excuse might have been made by any other poacher; the difference lay in this—­that Luke was believed.  At all events, such little trifles were forgotten, and Luke went on as before.  He did a good deal of the ferreting in the hedges outside the woods himself:  if he took home three dozen from the mound and only paid for two dozen, that scarcely concerned the world at large.

If in coming down the dark and slippery lane at night somebody with a heavy sack stepped out from the shadow at the stile, and if the contents of the sack were rapidly transferred to the shoulder-sticks, or the bag itself bodily taken along—­why, there was nobody there to see.  As for the young man and the boy who helped, those discreet persons had always a rabbit for their own pot, or even for a friend; and indeed it was often remarked that old Luke could always get plenty of men to work for him.  No one ever hinted at searching the dirty shed at the side of his cottage that was always locked by day, or looking inside the disused oven that it covered.  But if fur or feathers had been found there, was not he the contractor?  And clearly if a pheasant was there he could not be held responsible for the unauthorised acts of his assistants.

The truth was that Luke was the most thorough-paced poacher in the place—­or, rather, he was a wholesale receiver.  His success lay in making it pleasant for everybody all round.  It was pleasant for the keeper, who could always dispose of a few hares or pheasants if he wanted a little money.  The keeper, in ways known to himself, made it pleasant for the bailiff.  It was equally pleasant for the under-keepers, who had what they wanted (in reason), and enjoyed a little by-play on their own account.  It was pleasant for his men; and it was pleasant—­specially pleasant—­at a little wayside inn kept by Luke’s nephew, and, as was believed, with Luke’s money.  Everybody concerned in the business could always procure refreshment there, including the policeman.