“Ah! you mean some of _the other sort_?” This is a cant term among poachers for those eggs which are preserved by the hand of the law. The fowler started, and looked at the speaker with his right eye only. “You’re a queer young bloke,” he muttered, “down as a hammer, and no mistake. Oh! you’re fly, my lad――fly to a thing or two――there aint no manner of doubt about that ’ere!” Alf laughed. He was much charmed with his companion’s quaint and curious ways. “I know of one nest――eleven eggs, old bird sitting,” he said, in a tone of exultation. “Just your book, I should say.” “That’s the style, Polly. Bring ’em to me, my lad, and I’ll give you a shilling.” “If you’ll give me a shilling I’ll show you the nest, and let you take it as you did the bottletit’s. I want money, I can tell you.” “I s’pose you do. That’s by no means an uncommon complaint.” “Well, you can have it if you like――only say the word.” “And fork out the bob――eh?” “Yes, that’s a bargain, you know.” “Well, look here, my little ace of trumps, that may be all very well; but how am I to know if you wont round on me afterwards?” “I never rounded on anybody in my life,” cried Alf, in a tone of indignation. “Umph, I’m jolly glad of it; but you’ve got a pair of queer grey peepers. I’m always keerful how I do business with grey peepers.” “I didn’t make my peepers, and it’s no fault of mine if their colour don’t please you. I know one or two shady customers who have black and brown peepers.” “You’re a deal too artful for my money, and you see I don’t want to be led into a scrape, which is easier for a cove to get into than out of by long chalks.” “Look here, then,” cried Alf, pulling out the hare from under his smock; “I snared this, and have had a thrashing for it. I’ll sell you this if you like, and then one will be as low in the dirt as ’tother in the mire.” The bird-catcher stared with surprise, and exclaimed quickly―― “Didn’t I say as how you was fly? I’m blessed if you are not too good for a God-forgotten place like this.” “I want to leave it, and I will, please the pigs,” returned the lad. “I don’t care what I do so long as I haven’t to go back to Stoke Ferry Farm.” “Is that where you come from?” “Yes.” “Who and what are you?” “I’m an orphan, and have been brought up by Mr. Jamblin.” “And who is he?” “A farmer; and one as thinks a lot on himself.” “And you want to leave him?” “Yes.” “And seek your fortune in the great world, eh?” “That’s it. You’ve just hit it.” “Well, come, lad, sit down and let us have a bit of dinner together. You’re peckish, I ’spose, by this time?” Alf drew from his pocket the two pieces of bread and the slice of bacon. “Oh, you carry your prog with you, it seems. Not a bad plan. But just reach that basket――we shall find something better in that.” The two commenced their repast. “Where are you bound for after you’ve done for the day?” inquired Alf.