"Look here, man," at length said Meredyth, who, though new to the place, had a trained eye for the features of a moor; "surely we have come down wind far enough? It will take us all our time to get back before dinner, even if we pick the beats on the way home——" The answer was unexpected—a half-smothered exclamation of mingled anger and triumph. "Didn’t I tell you so?" young Stanley exclaimed, with his eyes fixed on a small, dark object a long distance up the glen. "Didn’t I tell you we should find him here? Don’t you see him—away up yonder? My lad, when you come poaching, you shouldn’t put on sailor’s clothes; they’re too conspicuous. What do you say, Hector: can you make him out? Well, whether you can or not, I will tell you his name. That is Mr. Donald Ross, if you want to know—and I guessed we should find him here or hereabouts!" "I am not sure," said Hector, slowly, also with his eyes fixed on the distant and dark figure. "But I am!" Fred Stanley went on. "And perhaps you can tell me what he is doing up on our shooting?" "Mebbe," said the serious-visaged keeper, with a little hesitation, "mebbe he was waiting to see that none of the lads would be for going into the forest. Or mebbe he was up at Glen Orme." "Oh, stuff and nonsense!" the young man cried, scornfully. "Do you think we are children! I tell you, we have caught him at last; and wherever the rest of the gang have sneaked off to, he is bound to come along here and face it out. Yes, he is coming: I can see he is moving this way. Very well, Frank, you have the dogs uncoupled now, and begin to shoot back home: I’m going to meet my gentleman—and I will take my gun with me, just to keep a wholesome check on insolence." "You will not," said Meredyth, with decision—for he knew not whither this young man’s obvious wrath and enmity might not lead him. "I will wait here with you: whoever that is, he is clearly coming this way." "Why, of course he must!" was the rejoinder. "He sees he is caught: what else is there left for him but to come along and try to put some kind of face on it?" Then presently he exclaimed: "Well, of all the effrontry that I ever beheld! He is carrying a gun under his arm!—how’s that for coolness?" "I am not thinking it is a gun, sir," said the tall, brown-bearded keeper; "it is more like a steeck." "Yes, it is a stick, Fred," Meredyth put in, after a moment. "Oh, why should he have a gun? What does he want with a gun?" the young man said, without being disconcerted for a moment. "He has only to direct the operations of his confederates. A stick?—very likely!—the master-poacher doesn’t want to be encumbered with a gun!"