g his golden chain on a sign-post for
a whole year without having it stolen."

"Tha-at ud be afore we brought our Chinese Labour gang felling timber,"
he said firmly; "I wudden give it five minutes now."

"I understand, too, that there is a historic ruin hereabouts."

"Theer was," he said; "but he's in hospital."

"What do you mean?"

"Ratty Beslow; my owd colleague an' sparring pardner. It's 'im you weer
talking of, ain't it?"

"It wasn't; but I'm interested in him," I said, sitting down on a pile
of logs. "How did he get to hospital?"

"Through a mistake in Nacheral 'Istory. You see, me an' Ratty had been
in th' War a goodish time an' ha-ad lost our o-riginal ferociousness. So
they put us to this Chink Labour gang for a rest-cure. Likewise Ratty
'ad got too fa-amous as a timber-scrounger oop th' line, and it was
thought that if 'e was left in th' middle of a forest, wheer it didn't
matter a dang if he scrounged wood fra' revally to tattoo, it might
reform him. But it was deadly dull. We tried a sweepstake f'r th' one as
could recognise most Chinks at sight, and a raffle for who could guess
how many trees in a circle; but there wasn't much spice in it. So at
last Ratty suggested we should try a bit o' poaching.

"'Ah doan't know th' first thing about it,' I says; 'Ah'm town bred.
Nobbut Ah could knock a few rabbits over if Ah'd got a Lewis gun handy.'

"'Rabbuts be danged!' says he; 'Ah've no use f'r such vermin. Theer's
stags, so Ah've heerd tell, in this forest.'

"'Ah wudden say no to a haunch o' venison,' I answered; 'but stags is
artillery work.'

"'They is not,' says Ratty. 'Nor yet rifles nor bombs.'

"'Ah s'pose you stops theer holes an' puts in a ferret,' says I,
sarcastic; 'or else traps 'em wi' cheese.'

"'That's the only kind o' hunting you've bin used to,' replies Ratty.
'Stags is caught wi' tactics, a trip-wire an' a lasso.'

"'Well, la-ad,' I says, 'you'd best do th' lassoing. I doan't know the
habits o' stags.'

"Ratty scrounges a prime rope fra' somewheers, an' we creeps out after
nightfall. It was a dree night, the owd bracken underfoot damp an'
sodden, an' th' tall firs looking grim an' gho-ostly in th' gloom. Soon
theer was a crackling o' twigs, like a tank scouting on tiptoe.

"'Bosch patrol half-left!' whispers I.

"'Stow it, you blighter,' says Ratty. 'This is serious. Can't you see
th' stag?'

"I peeps round and, loomin' in the da-arkness, see th' hindquarters of a
stag st