“Villiam,” began his superior--and here let it be remarked parenthetically that it was the custom of this excellent gamekeeper invariably to address his satellite for the time being as “Villiam,” utterly disregarding the occasional fact that the sponsors of the youth had seen fit to call him otherwise--“Villiam,” observed Mr. Millar, “you’re vet.” This being an incontrovertible certainty, evident to the meanest capacity, “Villiam” did not feel called upon to reply in words, merely shaking himself like a Newfoundland dog for the benefit of the bystanders, and glancing wistfully at the flask. “Yer vet right thro’ yer, Villiam,” resumed his employer dogmatically; “so shove a drop o’ this here down yer throat, and make spurrits and vater of yerself.” To this proposition “Villiam” replied by stretching out his hand, grasping the flask eagerly, then tugging at a tangled lock of hair on his forehead as a salutation to the assembled company, and growling out in a hoarse, damp voice, “Here’s wushin’ hall yer ’ealths,” he proceeded to “do his spiriting,” though by no means as “gently” as the delicate Ariel was accustomed to perform that operation. Having thus qualified his cold-water system by the introduction of alcohol, the spirit moved him and he spake. “Yer ain’t bagged much game, Master, this mornin’, I reckon?” “Not I,” was the reply; “no man can’t shoot things as ain’t wisibul, yer know, Villiam. I can’t think vot’s got all the game.” “They do tell I as pheasands as looks wery like ourn goes to Lunnun in t’carrier’s cart twice a veek,” observed “Villiam” in a dreamy, absent kind of manner, as if the remark were totally foreign to the subject under discussion. “Ah! that’s vot yer hear, is it, Villiam?” returned Millar carelessly. “Hif that’s the case, I suppose (for ’tain’t likely they valks there of themselves) somebody must take ’em?” “That is right, Master,” was the rejoinder. “Has it hever cum across yer--take another drop of spurrits, Villiam; yer vet--has it hever cum across yer who that somebody his?” demanded Millar in an easy, careless tone of voice. “His it true as ther General thinks o’ puttin’ hon a second hunder-keeper?” rejoined “Villiam,” replying, like an Irish echo, by another question. “Hi’m avake, Villiam,” returned his patron with an encouraging wink, “it certingly his possibul hif I vas to tell ther General that I knowed a quick, hintelligent lad has might be wery useful in _catchin poarchers_--yer understand, Villiam--sich a thing might cum about.” “In that case hi’m free to mention that hi see three coves a cummin’ hout o’ Todshole Spinney vith a sack as vosn’t haltogither hempty, atween three and four o’clock this here blessed mornin’.” “And vot might yer be a’ doin’ yerself, hout o’ bed at that time o’ night, Villiam?” inquired Millar suspiciously. “A lying in a dry ditch vith my heyes open,” returned the imp significantly.