talks of that affair. I says, 'I'll tell you now, I was the man as knocked you over,' and he says, 'Shake hands, Tom. It was the cleanest thing I ever saw done.' "Do you really like the game, then?" "Like it! I'd die at it. If it wasn't for my crippled foot I'd be out every night now." Old Tom, the much-imprisoned man, never goes out with a gang now, but his influence is potent. He is the romantic poacher, and many a man has been set on by him. Observe that the best of these night thieves are on perfectly friendly terms with the keepers. If they are taken, they resign themselves to fate, and bear no ill-will. It is a game, and if the keeper makes a good move he is admired--and forgiven. Six regular poachers come daily to The Chequers, but there are many others hanging around who are merely amateurs. One queer customer with whom I have stayed out many nights is the despair of the keepers. His resource is inexhaustible, and his courage is almost admirable. Let me say--with a blush if you like--that I am a skilful poacher, and my generalship has met with approval from gentlemen who have often seen the inside of Her Majesty's prisons. Alas! One day I was much taken with the appearance of a beautiful fawn bitch, which lay on the seat in the room which is used by the most shady men in the district. Her owner was a tall, thin man, with sly grey eyes, set very near together, and a lean, resolute face. Doggy men are freemasons, and I soon opened the conversation by speaking of the pretty fawn. She pricked her ears, and to my amazement, they stood up like those of a rabbit. Such a weird, out-of-the-way head I never saw, though the dog looked a nice, well-trained greyhound when she had her ears laid back. I said, "Why, she's a lurcher." "She ain't all greyhound; but the best man as ever I knew always said there never was a prick-eared one a bad 'un." "Is she for sale?" "There ain't enough money to buy her." "She's so very good?" "Never was one like her!" I found out, when we became fast friends, that the man's statement was quite correct. The dog's intelligence was supernatural. For the benefit of innocents who do not know what poaching is like, I will give an idea of this one dog's depredations. The owner--the Consumptive, I call him, as his night work has damaged his lungs--grew very friendly one day, and confidential. He winked and remarked, "Now, how many do you think I've had this month?" "How many what?" "You know. Rabbits. Guess." I tried, and failed. The Consumptive whispered, "Well, I keeps count, just the same as a shopkeeper, and as true as I'm a living man I've taken two hundred and fifty out of that park, and averaged tenpence for 'em." "With the one bitch?" "No. I've got a pup from her--such a pup. The old 'un's taught the baby, and I swear I'll never let that pup come out in daylight. They work together, and nothing can get away."