“Is the shooting good hereabouts?” I asked, by way of opening a conversation.

My inquiry seemed hugely to amuse the man.

“None better,” was the reply; “it’s thick with game, sir, it is for sure—­and nobody to profit, only”—­he winked at the landlord—­“young Jim Corder!”

The landlord emitted a deep grunt which was evidently recognized by the other as a laugh; for he himself laughed in a wild and not wholly pleasant manner, whereby I concluded that “young Jim Corder” was a standing joke in the neighborhood.

“You look as though you knew a hare from a partridge,” said I, “so I’ll take your word for it.”

This remark provoked a second and deeper growl from the landlord and a further burst of outlandish laughter from my acquaintance, the game-keeper.  Presently: 

“Why, sir, if I tell you,” declared the latter, “them birds all know me like I was their father, they do.  I says, ‘Good morning’ regular and them birds all bows to me, they does.”

When the laughter had subsided, scenting possible information: 

“I gather,” said I, “that you get few shooting-parties nowadays?”

Gloom descended upon both my gossips.

“You’re right, you are, sir,” replied the game-keeper.  “He’s right, ain’t he, Martin?”

Martin, the landlord, growled.  It occurred to me that he regarded the other with a certain disfavor.

“This ’ere country,” continued the game-keeper, vaguely waving his arm around, “is a blighted spot.  A blighted spot, ain’t it, Martin?”

Martin growled, whilst the game-keeper studied him covertly.

“Since Sir Burnham went to his long rest these ’ere parts ain’t knowed themselves.  I’m tellin’ you, sir.  Ain’t knowed ’emselves.  It’s all that quiet, winter and summer alike.  The Park all shut up; and the Park was the Park in them days—­warn’t it, Martin?”

Martin achieved speech; he removed his pipe, and: 

“It were, Hawkins,” he concurred.

Silence fell for a minute or two.  My new acquaintance, Hawkins, and Martin both seemed to be pondering upon the degeneracy of Upper Crossleys, and I could mot help thinking that Hawkins took a secret delight in it.  Then: 

“Surely the Park is still occupied by Lady Coverly?” I asked.

“Aye,” Hawkins nodded.  “She’s kep’ me on, me and the missus, she has, like the real lady she is.  But things is different; things is wrong.  Ain’t they, Martin?” he asked, with a mischievous glance at the stolid host.

“Things is,” agreed Martin.

“Best part of Park be shut up,” declared Hawkins.  “Horses gone, carriages gone, everybody gone; only me and my old woman.”

“There must be house servants,” I interjected.

“My old woman!” cried Hawkins triumphantly; “same as I’m tellin’ you!”

“You mean that Lady Coverly lives alone in the place with only—­er, Mrs. Hawkins to look after her?”