The two men met where a right of way ran through the preserves—­a sore trial to the keepers and the owners also, but sacred under the law—­and Harry Wade, the returned native, as had just come back to his birthplace, was walking along with Parsloe at the time.

The keepers were a good bit fretted and on their mettle just then, because there was a lot of poaching afoot and pheasants going, and a dead bird or two picked up, as had escaped the malefactors, but died after and been found.  So when Parsloe stopped Mr. Meadows and said as he’d got something to report, the old man hoped he might have a line to help against the enemy.  One or two law-abiding men, Wade among ’em, had been aiding the keepers by night, and the police had also lent a hand; but as yet nobody was laid by the heels, nor even suspected.  So it looked like stranger men from down Plymouth way; and the subject was getting on John Meadows’ nerves, because his master, a great sportsman who poured out a lot of money on his pheasants, didn’t like it and was grumbling a good bit.

Then William Parsloe told his tale: 

“I was along the Woodman’s Path last night working up to the covers,” he said, “and beside Hound’s Pool I fell in with a hugeous great dog.  ’Twas a moony night and I couldn’t be mistook.  ’Twas no common dog I knowed, but black as sin and near so large as a calf.  He didn’t make no noise, but come like a blot of ink down to the pool and put his nose down to drink, and in another moment I’d have shot the creature, but he scented me, and then he saw me, as I made to lift my gun, and was off like a streak of lightning.”

John Meadows stared and then he showed a good bit of satisfaction.

“Ah!” he said.  “I’m glad as it is one of the younger people seed it, and not me, or some other old man; because now ’twill be believed.  Hound’s Pool, you say?”

Parsloe nodded and Harry Wade asked a question.  He was a tall, handsome chap tanned by the foreign sun where he’d lived and worked too.

“What of it, master?” he said.

“This of it,” answered Meadows.  “Bill Parsloe have seen the Hound and no less.  And the Hound ain’t no mortal dog at all, but he was once a mortal man and the tale be old history now, yet none the less true for that.  My father, as worked here before me, saw him thrice, and his highest good came to him after; and Benny Price, a woodman, saw him once ten year ago, and good likewise came to him, for Mrs. Price ran away with a baker’s apprentice at Buckfastleigh and was never heard of again.  And since you’ve seen the Hound, Parsloe, I hope good will come to you.”

Neither of t’other men had heard the tale and Harry Wade was very interested, because he minded that, when a nipper, his mother had told him something about it.  And Parsloe, who was pretty well educated and a very sharp man, felt inclined to doubt he hadn’t seen a baggering poacher’s mongrel; but old John wouldn’t tell ’em then.  He was a stickler for his job and never wasted no time gossiping in working hours.