To tell the truth, Griff had characteristically lost sight of prudence; how could he leave the Squire, stretched stark before him, without at least a passing attempt to bring him round? He looked towards the stream that tumbled through Cringle Wood, and was setting off to fetch water in his cap when a pair of lusty arms gripped him from behind. His next clear conception of outward things was, that he was lying on his back, looking up at the Milky Way. "The game's up at last," he groaned. "Dad would never have been such a dolt--and how will it strike Kate?" "Much as you struck Squire," put in one of the keepers, facetiously--"straight atween the eyes." Griff bit his lip; he had not known that he was talking aloud. Then, to make matters worse, down came the other pair of the Squire's party, with Jack o' Ling Crag between them. Old Roger Daneholme opened his eyes presently; they doused him with cold water, and before long he was on his feet again. "We've got two of 'em, Squire," said a keeper. "Eh? Got what?" he muttered, still dazed. "Two of the poaching wastrels." The Squire looked at Griff and grinned. "_Wastrels_, say you? Well, if you feel that way, I'll watch while any one of you four have a go at our friend there. You don't seem anxious. Let him free, then, you fools, and don't sit on his chest as if he was a damned armchair." Griff, freed from constraint, leaped to his feet; he began to think that there was hope for him yet if he had to deal with Roger Daneholme. "What's your name?" queried the Squire, taking a long pull at his flask. "Griff Lomax." "What, Joshua Lomax's son? Gad, I wish he'd been alive to see you fight! I knew him well; we were lads together, and many a night he's helped me to take my father's game. That's it, you see. The light's a bit queer down in the wood here, and I thought you were Walter, my son. Time and again I've tried to spot him at the old game--runs in the family, you'll observe--and I wanted to see if I was a match for him yet. You're about his build and height--but, by hell, you've a better notion of your fists! I never knew a cleaner shot than that you felled me with--not that I saw it very clearly--but it was such a devilish kingdom-come blow for me. Lomax, I'm proud to meet you." The keepers stared open-eyed at this last freak of the Squire's. They fancied they knew the ins-and-outs of their master pretty well by this time, but they were not prepared for this. Jack o' Ling Crag swore a soft oath, and decided that old Roger was a likelier man than he'd thought him. The Squire turned sharply. "Who's that? Why, it's Jack o' Ling Crag, if I'm not mistaken. So we've got you at last, Jack, have we? Well, you've had a fair run." "You're not going to run him in?" said Griff, quickly. "Why not? He's the rankest poacher in the county." "So am I, then."