s. It's a great deal a matter of
practice. You'd be surprised what keen sight some of the men have here
who've been sailors. Old Lewis, for instance--he can tell a ship's
nationality when she appears only a speck on the horizon, and I believe
he can see almost as well in the dark as he can in the daylight. He's
a curious old fellow. Some afternoon we'll go out fishing with him in
his boat."

We sat looking out over the vast expanse of ocean till the sun sank
like a huge ball of fire below the horizon; then my companion rose once
more to his feet.

"It's time we went back to supper," he said, "or mother will be getting
anxious, and think we've met with an accident. She's been very nervous
since father's death."

Crossing a stretch of common land, we found ourselves looking down on a
little sheltered valley, through which ran a tiny stream, winding its
way towards a little cove where I knew my friend often went to bathe.
Worn out, no doubt, in the course of ages by the water, this gully
narrowed down as it neared the sea, but where we stood it was some
little distance across, and the farther side was covered with quite a
thick copse of trees and bushes.

"I wish I'd brought the dog with me," said Miles. "There is any
quantity of rabbits here. Still, we may be able to get a shot. If we
creep along till we reach that corner," he continued, as we entered the
fringe of the wood, "we may find some of them sitting out in the open."

Bending down, we moved forward in single file, avoiding any dry twigs
which might crack beneath our feet. In this manner we had proceeded
some distance, when I was startled by a rustling in the bushes, and a
big brown dog went bounding across our path.

"You poaching rascal!" exclaimed Miles, and raised his gun to his
shoulder. He was, I am sure, too kind-hearted to have actually shot
the dog; it was more of an angry gesture, or he might have intended to
send the charge a few yards behind the animal's tail to give it a
fright. Anyway, before he could have had time to pull the trigger, to
my astonishment a man suddenly rose up close to us, as though out of
the ground.

"Don't shoot, Master Miles!" he cried. "It be only old Joey, and he's
doing no harm."

The speaker was clad in a dilapidated hat, a blue jersey, and a pair of
old trousers stuffed into a fisherman's boots. I set him down at once
as a poacher, and was astonished at the friendly tone in which he
addressed the own