A few more acres were dragged, more game secured, and the party once more safely seated in the cart. Two sacks of game lay in the bottom of the vehicle, which were both deposited (saving one bagful for the host) at the Green Cottage at Butley Moor. What a happy man was that host, when, after all his dangers, he found himself again within his own doors! happier still, when, after entertaining his free companions, whose jokes upon his expressions of joy at escape were amusing enough to them, though painfully interesting to himself; happier still was he, when, at four o'clock in the morn, he let them out of his house, and bade poachers and poaching good-bye for ever! Nineteen beautiful cock pheasants were hung up in his larder; but so ashamed was the Squire of their being seen there, that, before he retired to his own bed, he put them all into a box, with hay, &c., and directed them to Mr. Thomas Page, his wine-merchant, in London. His _spolia opima_ were not mentioned till years had in some measure worn off the rust of danger, and then he gave his friends and neighbours reason to rejoice in his adventure, and that he had escaped transportation. CHAPTER VI HARVEST-HOME It was the evening before Harvest-Home, September 29, 1793, that a sailor called at the back-door of the Priory Farm, Downham Reach, to ask for a draught of fresh water. It was no uncommon thing for sailors to call for such a purpose. Downham Reach was the nearest point at which ships of large tonnage would usually anchor, and shift their cargoes in lighters for the town of Ipswich, whence it was distant about four miles. The crews of vessels frequently had to walk up to the town from this spot; so that it was no uncommon thing for them, upon landing near the Priory Farm after a voyage, to be glad of a sparkling draught of clear water. The desired draught was handed to the sailor by the ever-ready hand of Margaret Catchpole, who always took an interest in men belonging to the sea. "Is dis de Priry Barm?" asked the man, in broken English. "This is the Priory Farm," was the quick and eager reply of Margaret. "How bar to Gipswitch?" "Four miles to Ipswich. What country are you from?" "Mynheer be brom Hamsterdam. I lept me bessel in de harber. Mynheer de Captan did 'mand me up to Gipswitch. 'E 'mand me 'top at Priry Barm to tale von Margaret Catchpole dad 'e vou'd come up 'ere to-morrow, at nine o'clock in de eve." "What is your captain's name?" "Von Villiam Laud." The reader need not be told the rest of the conversation, which of course related to the Captain. How he was? How he got on? Whose service he was in? How he would come up? And where Margaret was to meet him? It was all arranged that she should be upon the shore at nine o'clock, and look out for a small sail-boat, which should come up the river and run ashore against the creek: that the watchword should be "Margaret," and that punctuality should be observed.