Hannaford was an immensely powerful man. He said one day to his groom, "Come on, Bill, we'll go over to Bidlake and take a rise out of Welford"--afterwards Lord Lundy. So they blackened their faces, disguised themselves in cast-off clothes, and went to the lodge at Bidlake. They were denied admittance, but forced their way in and walked up the drive. The lodge-keeper ran after them and attacked the groom, who at once buckled-to for a fight. Then a couple of keepers burst out from the shrubbery. "Leave them alone," said Hannaford. "It's a pretty sight. Don't interfere to spoil sport." However, one of the keepers went at the groom, to the relief of the lodge-keeper. "Oh, you will, will you," said Hannaford. He caught him with his huge hand and cast him on the gravel. The other keeper fared no better. The groom had in the meantime demolished his man; so he and his master sauntered along the drive without further molestation till they reached the house. Hannaford went to the door to ring, when the Hon. Mr. Welford appeared, and angrily inquired what was their business. "Work, your honour," answered Hannaford, pulling a forelock. "Work is it you want? But did not my keepers stop your coming up this way?" "They tried it, but they couldn't do it," answered Hannaford. "There they be--skulking along." "They could not stop you?" "We flung three of them in the road," answered Hannaford. "And now I reckon your honour will give us something to drink your health." Mr. Welford gave them a crown and dismissed them--also, it is said, the keepers. If so, that was hardly fair, for Hannaford was the strongest man in England. He was beaten but once, and that was in Exeter, when drunk. He had gone over to the city for a spree, and had put up at a low public-house. There he met with a Welshman, and had a fight with him, and was horribly mauled about the head and body. Next day, when sober, Hannaford followed the man by train to Bristol, and thence tracked him to some little out-of-the-way place in Wales. He proceeded to his door, knocked, called the man out, and fought him there and then--and this time utterly thrashed him. When the fellow was so knocked about that he could not speak and hold up, "There," said the Devonshire parson, "now take care how you lay a finger on Jack Hannaford again when he is drunk. If you wish for a return bout, call at your will at Wellclose Parsonage, and you'll find him ready."