It all went very well—­in fact, a lot better than I’d hoped for, chance favoured me in a very peculiar way, and the Dowl hisself couldn’t have planned a greater or more startling surprise for Cranston Champernowne.  Along he came presently, with his head down and his shoulders up.  Like a haunted creature he crept from the woods; his face was white, and misery stared out of it.  Presently he looked upward at the moon, while he walked along like an old, tired man.  And when I see his face, I was terrible glad I’d took such a lot of trouble for him, because ’twas properly ravaged with suffering.  He came to the canister, and the owl was hollering for all he was worth, and the matter fell out like this.  First Mister Champernowne catched sight of the canister and stood still, as if the sight had froze him; then the bird shouted, and I had to wait for him to shut up afore I had my say.

“Hoo-hoo-hoo!  Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!” went the owl.  Then, the moment he stopped, I spoke, very loud and slow.

“Don’t you do it, or else you’ll rue it!” I said.

And the young man gazed up into the air and very near fell down in a fit, I believe, for he ’peared to think he’d heard but one voice, and that the owl was telling to him!  I’m sure it must have been like that with him, for he cried aloud and he lifted up his hands, and he shook like a reed in the river.

“Good God in Heaven, what’s this?  Am I mad?” he says.  Then the owl was frightened, and slipped away silent on open wing, and the young man stood still staring and panting.  He put his hands over his face to wipe away the canister, for ’twas clear that he didn’t believe the thing was real; but when he looked again, there it lay, glittering like a star—­the very item he’d thrown in the deepest part of the river not an hour afore!  Then he crept towards it very slow, as if ’twas a snake; and he bent and touched it and found it to be a real thing and not a dream.  With that he picked it up and strained his ears to listen; and I could see the sweat shining on the face of ’un and the breath of the man puffing in a mist on the night air.  He stood all doubtful for a little, while I bided so still that not a leaf moved; then he went on his way, like a creature sick or drunk, and he passed into the gardens and disappeared from sight.

I waited till he was properly gone, and after that I got back in the woods and returned to the river.  Always a neat and tidy man—­as poachers mostly are—­I took the hayrake back to the field and wound up my lines.  Then I went home, for ’twas peep of day by now, and I felt I’d done a very proper night’s work, and wondered if there’d ever be anything to show for it.

Well, there wasn’t—­in fact, it looked much as if I’d done a miracle for nothing.  Days passed by.  Squire Champernowne got buried with a proper flare-up, and we heard that Mr. Cranston Champernowne was heir to Woodcotes and the farms and all.  And next time I was out and about on the river according to my custom, I heard the owl hollering, and I said to the owl:  “You and me had our trouble for nought, my old dear, for ’tis very clear he wouldn’t listen to us.  He was a hard case and a bad lot, and ’tis no good honest folk like you and me putting a man into the straight road if he won’t bide in it.”