“I’ll be dumb, and mind that you are,” he said. “And no more playing games with gunpowder. You might have blowed the whole countryside to glory. Keep away in future. If I catch you within a hunderd yards of this place, I’ll lather you.” “Finding be keeping,” answered Davey, indignantly. “Perhaps ’tis; an’ might be right. You’ve heard me. That powder’s mine henceforth.” Davey knew his brother pretty well, but such injustice made him gasp. His small brains worked quickly, and remembering that Richard’s business on the rabbit warren took him far from the powder-mills, the boy held his peace. This silence, however, angered the bully more than words. They moved homeward together, and the elder spoke again. “Now you can just fork out that trout, and be quick about it.” “You promised on your honour!” cried Davey. “Promises doan’t hold wi’ poachers.” They were walking from the valley to their home; and the younger, seeing the farm-house door not two hundred yards distant, made a sudden bolt in hope to reach his mother and safety before Dick could overtake him. But he was soon caught and violently flung to the ground. “Would you, you whelp?” A blow upon the side of the head dazed the child, and before he could recover or resist, his brother had thrust a rough hand into Davey’s pocket, dragged therefrom the little trout, and stamped it to pulp under his heel. “There—now you go home-along in front of me, you young dog. I’ll teach you!” The boy stood up, muddy, dishevelled, shaking with rage. His eyes shone redly in the setting sunlight; he clenched his little fists, and his frame shook. “Wait!” he said slowly, with passion strong enough for the moment to arrest his tears. “Wait till I be grawed up. Then ’twill be my turn, an’ I’ll do ’e all the ill ever I can. You’m a cowardly, cruel devil to me always, an’ I swear I’ll pay you back first instant I be strong enough to do it!” “Get in the house an’ shut your rabbit-mouth, or I’ll give ’e something to swear for,” answered the keeper. Then his great loss settled heavily upon Davey’s soul, and he wept and went home to his mother. CHAPTER II Richard Daccombe visited the little bridge over Cherry-brook yet again after his supper; and in a different mood, beside a different companion, he sat upon the granite parapet. Darkness, fretted with white moonlight, was under the fir trees; the Moor stretched dimly to the hills in one wan featureless waste; an owl cried from the wood, and one shattered chimney towered ghostly grey over the desolation. Quaint black ruins, like hump-backed giants, dotted the immediate distance, and the river twinkled and murmured under the moon, while Dick’s pipe glowed, and a girl’s voice sounded at his elbow. “Sweetheart,” she said, “why be you so hard with Davey?” “Leave that, Jane,” he answered. “’Tis mother has been at you—as if I didn’t know. Little twoad’s all the better for licking.”