“’Twould have been an odd twist of luck indeed,” returned Everell, good-humouredly. “I am much in your own case, friend: far from desiring to trip up another man, I must look to it that I’m not tripped up myself. My fellow-feeling at present is with the fox rather than the hounds.” “Then belike you are seeking cover hereabouts?” inquired the poacher, in a tone of friendly interest. “At all events, I wish to remain in this neighbourhood a few days, without encountering a great degree of publicity. I say as much to an honest rogue like yourself—I mightn’t be as free with a more respectable man.” “You’re not far wrong there, sir,” replied the fellow, not at all displeased, but, on the contrary, gratified at the justice done him. “I don’t ask to know anything; I have secrets enough of my own. But if I can be of any small service, in the way of information about the lay o’ the land or such a matter—for I see you’re a stranger hereabouts, and I know these parts well—better than they know me, by a great deal—why, then, I’m your servant to command. But, if not, I’ll bid ye good night and safe lying wherever you may lodge.” “Oh, as for that, I lodge at the ale-house in the village, for to-night, at least. I told the landlord I would ride on to-morrow; I shall have to find some pretext for staying.” “Well, sir, you know your own wishes—but ’tis not the most private place, that there ale-house, and they be inquisitive folk, them in the village.” “What other lodging would you recommend?” asked Everell, for the first time seriously awake to the curiosity that his presence must arouse in so remote a place. “I certainly desire to go and come unobserved: I have no mind that my motions should be watched and discussed.” “Why, that’s a question,” said the other, frankly nonplussed. “You ought to know the answer,” said Everell. “Surely you are able to go and come without witnesses, when upon such amusements as brought you out this evening.” “Be sure I don’t live at the village ale-house, master. Nor at any village, neither; nor in sight of one.” “Where, then, do you live?” “I have my cottage, and my patch o’ ground that I contrive to coax a livin’ out of—with a little assistance from outside.” He scarce consciously laid his palm against the fat pocket. “’Tis a poor place, sir, but has the recommendation of privacy. ’Tis so lost in the woods, so to speak, and closed round by hillocks and thickets, I doubt you could ever find it if I told you the way.” “Who lives with you?” “Nobody at present, since my last son was took by the press-gang—he was in Newcastle to visit his brother, who’s a porter there. They would go out to see the world, them lads!” “Then you have room for a lodger,” said Everell, tentatively. “Fine lodgings for a gentleman like you, sir!” “Never mind; I’ve had worse,” Everell replied, thinking of Scotland; “and not so long since, either.” “And the food, sir,—with your tender stomach?” “Man, I’ve lived two days on a wet oatcake.”