go, used to do the same thing, they say. It ain't in nature that
stags should be druv four-in-hand, even by Carew. However, the Squire
won his wager; and we haven't seen none o' _that_ wild work o' late
weeks, though we may see it again any day."

"I have heard of that strange exploit," observed Yorke; "but as driving
deer, even in the ordinary way, is not my calling, and as I am no great
rider, even if I had a horse, I don't see how I am to introduce myself
to your mad Squire, and yet I have a great fancy for his acquaintance.
Do you think he'd buy any of these drawings, taken in his own park, from
his own timber?" The young man touched a portfolio, already well stocked
with studies of oak and beech. "Here is a sketch of the Decoy Pond, for
instance, with the oldest tree in the chase beside it; would not that
interest him, think you? You think not?"

"Well, young gentleman," said the keeper, frankly, "if I say no, it
ain't that I mean any slight to your drawing. It's like the tree enough,
for certain, with the very hoop of iron as I put round it with my own
hands twenty years ago--and, by the same token, it will want another
before this winter's out; but I don't think the Squire cares much for
such matters. He might, maybe, just give a look at it, or he might bid
you go to the devil for a paper-staining son of a--well--what you will.
He does not care a farthing, bless 'ee, for all the great pictures in
his own gallery, though they cost his grandfather a mint of money, and
are certainly a fine sight--so far as the frames go. And, on the other
hand, if he happens to be cross-grained that day, he might tear it up
before you could say 'Hold,' and kick you down the Hall steps into the
bargain, as he has done to many a one. That's where it is, you see, the
Squire is so chancy."

"I don't think he would kick _me_ down his Hall steps," said Yorke,
grimly.

The keeper grinned. "Well, you see, nobody can tell that till it's
tried. The Squire is a regular bruiser, I promise you, though I grant
you are a strapping young fellow, and you have told me that you know how
to use your fists. That's a great thing, mind you, for a man to ha'
learnt; a deal better than Latin or such-like, in my opinion. Folks talk
of life-preservers and pistols, but there's nothing like a good pair of
well-handled fists when one has to tackle a poacher. I've been at
Crompton, man and boy, these fifty years, and had a good many
rough-and-tumbles with tha