"Duchy's alive enough; yet 'tis wasting wind to cuss it an' breath to talk against it. 'Tis alive, but it can't be hurled; it have ears, but it be deaf to the likes of us. It laughs at us, but we never hear the laughter." "An' it's got a deep pocket," said the hairy man. "What say you, neighbour Woodman?" "I say, 'tis a monster," answered another speaker. "'Tis the invention of the Devil to breed anger an' evil thoughts in us. Here be I, Harvey Woodman of Huccaby, son of Harvey Woodman of Huccaby, grandson of Harvey Woodman of Huccaby, great-grandson of Harvey Woodman of Huccaby; an' I tell you that the vexations of the Duchy have so lighted 'pon my family from generation to generation, that it has got in our blood an' we stand to it same as mankind in the Bible do stand to the seed of the serpent." "Maybe--with a difference, Harvey," answered Uncle Smallridge. "Duchy'll bruise your head for you, an' your son's head, same as it did your forbears, but you won't bruise its heel; for why? It haven't got no heel to bruise." "'Tis a wicked whole made up of decent bits," declared the hairy man, whose name was Richard Beer. "The gents as stand for Duchy, take 'em one by one, be human men same as us; but when they meets together, the Devil's in the chair every time. An' now another two hundred acres gone, an' all that butivul stroll for cattle beyond Fox Tor Mire walled off against my heifers an' yours." "I hate the chap afore I see him. He've got a wicked-sounding name," said Thomas Putt, the youth with weak eyes. "If we was men instead of mice, we'd rise up an' show Duchy that right's right, and that its ways be the ways of a knave," said Harvey Woodman. Then he shook his bull neck and drank deep. "Supposing us all had your great courage, no doubt something would be done," answered Beer. "What you say be true; but we spend our indignation in words an' leave none for deeds." "Where there's smoke there's fire," declared the ancient by the hearth. "If I was a younger man I'd lead you forth against Duchy an' be the fust to heave down they walls rising up-along--ay, an' call upon the God o' Justice to lend His A'mighty Hand." "Which He wouldn't do; for there ban't no miracles now, Uncle Smallridge," said Thomas Putt. "Ban't there? I think there be, else you'd be shut up, Tom, an' not roaming free." This allusion made the company laugh, for, despite his slim shape and peering eyes, Tom Putt was a daring poacher--one of Izaac Walton's wicked but most skilful disciples. He killed many a salmon, and he shot many a partridge intended for a nobler destiny than slaughter at his hand. A stranger entered the bar of the "Saracen's Head" at this moment. The man shook the wet from his coat, went to the fire, and ordered a glass of hot brandy and water.