he scut,
the old rip--catch him leave her--and I gits excited, and, like a fool,
I chevies him on. In a minute I sees a man running at me, and off I goes
for the gate. Now, I could run any man round here from 300 yards up to a
mile; but I knew I must be took at the gate, unless I could stop the
keeper. I had a big stick with me--about six foot long it was--and did
sometimes to beat fuzz with; so I takes the stick by one end. He come up
very sharp, and I made up my mind to let him gain on me. As soon as I
_feels_ him on me, I swings round, and the stick got him on the side of
the head. He went flat down, and I got on to the road. I picked up my
mates, and we washes our faces in a pond; then we leaves our clothes
with one of the school, and walks off to the pub. Half an hour after, in
comes the keeper and says, 'See what some of you blackguards has done
for me?' I stands him a drink and says how sorry, and we parted. Ah!
Years after that I was at a harvest supper with that keeper, and we
talks of that affair. I says, 'I'll tell you now, I was the man as
knocked you over,' and he says, 'Shake hands, Tom. It was the cleanest
thing I ever saw done.'

"Do you really like the game, then?"

"Like it! I'd die at it. If it wasn't for my crippled foot I'd be out
every night now."

Old Tom, the much-imprisoned man, never goes out with a gang now, but
his influence is potent. He is the romantic poacher, and many a man has
been set on by him. Observe that the best of these night thieves are on
perfectly friendly terms with the keepers. If they are taken, they
resign themselves to fate, and bear no ill-will. It is a game, and if
the keeper makes a good move he is admired--and forgiven.

Six regular poachers come daily to The Chequers, but there are many
others hanging around who are merely amateurs. One queer customer with
whom I have stayed out many nights is the despair of the keepers. His
resource is inexhaustible, and his courage is almost admirable. Let me
say--with a blush if you like--that I am a skilful poacher, and my
generalship has met with approval from gentlemen who have often seen the
inside of Her Majesty's prisons. Alas!

One day I was much taken with the appearance of a beautiful fawn bitch,
which lay on the seat in the room which is used by the most shady men in
the district. Her owner was a tall, thin man, with sly grey eyes, set
very near together, and a lean, resolute face. Doggy men are freemasons,
and I so