"Don't be 'ard on a pore feller, Squire. I only wanted to try your grit--and it's real grit it is. And yer won't 'ave a pore cove up afore the beaks jest as 'e's out o' quod, will yer, Squire. I won't give you any more trouble--I swear I won't. Blind me if I do! Say you won't 'ave me run in, Squire!" Roland, who could hardly restrain his laughter, eyed the fellow for a moment contemptuously. "Well, Devine, I'll let you down easy this time, but don't let me catch you loafing round here again. And don't let me hear that you've made any capital or mischief out of this in any sort of way," he added significantly. "Carn't ye spare a sovereign or two, Squire? I'm mortal 'ard up," whined the poacher. "Not a red cent. Now off you go, left foot foremost. March!" He was determined the other should never have it in his power to say he had given him money, were it but the price of a pint. "And no tricks, friend Gipsy Steve. Clear right away. Why, the dog here would throttle you in a minute at a word from me--and I'm not sure I hadn't best let him do it--but he'd be certain to get a knock or two over the job, so that it's hardly worth while." "Good-night, Squire," said Devine sullenly, as he took himself off. Roland watched the retreating form of the poacher for about fifty yards, and turned to resume his way homewards. With Roy by his side he had no fear of foul play at the hand of the baffled and exasperated ruffian, and his mind was free to think over the recent encounter. Turner's motive in releasing Devine was clear, and if the curate turned out to be worth powder and shot he would be even with him yet. And the poacher's release was not an unmixed evil--at any rate so it seemed at that moment; for, with this low rascal's voice still fresh in his ears, he felt more than ever inclined to break free from the besetting temptation: as to which it was a case of "needs must"--unless he chose to retain that execrable blackguard in his pay--a thing that he would rather hang himself than do. It struck him, however, that during the short time since his return he had made two enemies, Devine and Turner-- the last more powerful for evil, being his own social equal, and because as a parson any mischief he might work would be set down to motives of Christian duty. Once out of sight, the poacher turned round and shook his fist in the direction of the man who had so thoroughly turned his flank. "Wait a bit, master!" he snarled through a volley of curses. "Just wait a bit, and blast me dead if I don't cut that fine cock's-comb of yours one of these days. And if I don't, call me a blanked sodger!" Whether he did or did not earn that martial appellation will hereinafter appear. CHAPTER TWELVE. "THE SKEGS." "Father, I'm going down to Minchkil Bay to look up some of your ancient mariners."