lightly built dog, bred between a collie and greyhound; Lance had a big Bedlington terrier; and these two dogs were certain to be the death of any hare they made up their minds to catch.  Lance and Roughit would sit down by the fence beside a gate; the lurcher lay quietly down beside the gate-post, while the terrier slipped through the gap in the hedge and sneaked quietly round to the top of the field.  When he had reached the furthermost hedge, he began to beat slowly down towards his confederate:  there would come a quick thud, thud of feet; then a scraping on the bars of the gate; then a shrill squeak; and the lurcher cantered quietly up with his game to the place where the two fishermen sat.  If old Sam, the Squire’s gamekeeper, had ever had a chance of putting a charge of shot into either of the dogs he would not have thrown it away.  But the brutes usually stayed indoors all day, and never went rummaging the coverts on their own account.  Roughit showed no signs of sporting instinct; but Lance really liked the fun, and was willing to run all kinds of risks.

Year after year the friends lived their silent life, dividing their time between fishing, poaching, and drinking.  Sometimes a spell of bad weather came, and all day long the spray flew over the cottages and the cold breeze covered the sand with foam.  The waters roared drearily, and the nights were bad enough to prevent the most inveterate poacher from turning out.  During the daytime Lance and Roughit would lounge on the rock-tops, and look grimly out at the horizon, where the grey clouds laid their shoulders to the sea.  Their companionship was much like that of lower animals:  it was quite sufficient for one to know that the other was near.  They did once separate for a short time, Roughit shipped in a merchant brig that was going round to Plymouth.  The vessel made the run in about a week; but Roughit felt very wretched during the whole time, without knowing exactly why.  At Plymouth he deserted, leaving his box behind him, and set off on foot northwards.

One evening Lance was sitting sulkily on the ground, when he saw a man crossing the moor.  A vague curiosity caused him to walk out to meet the stranger, and presently Roughit came up looking very dirty, and wearing only an old sleeved waistcoat and a ragged pair of canvas trousers.  He was barefooted too, and limped a good deal.  The two men simply nodded and turned back to the village together.  Neither of them asked any questions, but they sat drinking until a late hour, and went home less steadily than might have been wished.  The people in the Row took but little notice of this eccentric couple; for, after all, the friends did harm to nothing except the Squire’s ground-game.