I suppose I must have answered Mr. Blackburn's opening, leading questions with some measure of sanity and coherence, though I never could recall what they were, or indeed having heard them at all. Then the mist cleared from my eyes, I braced my limbs, and felt as cool and compassed as ever I did in my life. I told the Bench of the conversation I had overheard at Pots and Pans, and how I had straightway taken council with my father, feeling the case to be one for older heads than mine. "The prisoner's a friend of yours?" asked Mr. Alison. "Say, rather, an acquaintance," I corrected. "You know he's a notorious poacher." "I've never seen him poaching," I replied, an answer which, on subsequent reflection, in which I recalled certain episodes in which I was as much concerned as Ephraim, I felt to have been capable of some modification. But that was ancient history. "Never seen him, no, probably not. I asked you isn't he a notorious poacher?" "You must define 'notorious.'" "A chip of the old block, I see. We must have definitions for the Ranter's son. You know well enough what the word means, sir. And answer the question." "If it means 'well-known,' I can only say he is not so known to me. If others have other knowledge they must speak to it, not I." I'll swear I saw Ruth, out of the corner of my eyes, gently clapping her hands together. She told me afterwards she had never given me credit for so much gumption. "And how do _you_ account for these hares being found in the prisoner's possession?" "Enoch Hoyle will account for that," I replied, and stepped down. I suppose there never was a prouder man than was old Enoch that day. "You reside at Merrydale, Mr. Hoyle?" "'_Mister_ Hoyle,' he ca'd me, th' first an' last time i' mi life aw'm be ca'd owt but Enoch. Eh! but he knows a gentleman when he sees one, does 'Torney Blackburn," was Enoch's comment when he told the story of that day's doings, which he did at least once a day for the rest of his life, too often, population being but sparse in our neighbourhood, to ears grown weary of the tale. "Aye, to be sewer, at Merrydale. Aw were born theer just seventy-two year sin' come next Xermas. Mi feyther were Sammy Hoyle, owd Sammy Hoyle--yo'll ha' heard tell of him, aw mak' no doubt--an' mi mother were one of th' Garsides o' Rocher. I'm th' only chick they ever had, an' aw'v heerd mi mother say aw were varry delikit--" "Oh, stop him, for heaven's sake," ejaculated Mr. Alison, "or we shall have the old fool's autobiography from birth to now." "Yes, yes Mr. Hoyle, quite so. And what occupation do you follow?" "Eh?" "What are you?" "Aw'm th' senior deacon at Pow Moor Chapel." "Yes, yes. How do you earn your living?" "Oh! I see what you mean. Well, when aw were a little un aw used to help mi mother to wind th' bobbins, an' mi feyther to sprinkle th' wool wi' lant--" "Yes, yes, but what do you do now?"