"What has he been doing for years past? Drink, drink, only more now than of old. He has failed in his quarry business, and they say he hasn't a penny in the world. Well, well, let him pass; he's a fine object-lesson for those who believe in the inherent worth of the animal man. Cross between a gentleman-rake and a woman of the soil--a bad cross always--children inherit worst of both sides. Heigho! Here we are at Gorsthwaite. Now, mind that you pull yourself well together, Griff. Your wife wants no molygrubs from you, let me tell you; she will manufacture enough and to spare for herself. Oh, and another thing. I don't know whether you think of moving into the Manor soon. You had better not, till your wife is strong again. The moving would only worry her." But old Jose Binns, milking his cows in the mistal that same evening, nodded his head sagely, and a dour look was on his face. "I said 'at there'd no gooid come on it, an' there's war i' th' making. No gooid could ha' come on it, choose how a mon looks at it." CHAPTER XXVI. HOW THEY FOUGHT ROUND THE PEAT-RICK. For generations past Gorsthwaite Moor had been a meeting place for gamblers from the little manufacturing towns that encroached on the furthest limits of the heath. Town-bred they were, for the most part, stunted and sickly-bodied; they spoke the uncouth, hybrid Yorkshire of the streets, not the rich Doric of the moor-folk. But here and there you would find moor-reared men among them, a poacher may be, or one of the fast-dying race of moor-squireens. The police knew well enough that never a fine Sunday went by without adding its quota to the countless games of pitch-and-toss that had already been played on the moor; they had known it for years past, but had never been able to make a successful raid. The moor ran down sharply to the valley on every side, and outposts stationed at the edges could command every way of access, recognized or otherwise, to their open-air gambling haunt. Periodically the detectives pitted their ingenuity against that of the gamblers, and periodically they found, on reaching the middle of Gorsthwaite Moor, an innocent company of workingmen, engaged in no more illegal occupation than the smoking of very black clay pipes. The pickets knew their business far too well to admit of surprises; their rule was, to pass the one word "stranger" to their comrades, whenever an unknown figure appeared below; no matter if the figure were that of a woman or child--the word was passed along just the same, and operations were suspended until the intruder had got out of sight. Treachery among their number was the only thing they had to fear, and it was a standing wonder to Griff--who made himself free of every out-of-the-way society afforded by the moors--that none of them had ever sold their secret.