On the further side of the church from the town was a farmyard, in the occupation of one of Lord Trowbridge's tenants,--a man who had ever been very keen at preventing the inroads of trespassers, to which he had, perhaps, been driven by the fact that his land was traversed by various public pathways. Now a public pathway through pasture is a nuisance, as it is impossible to induce those who use it to keep themselves to one beaten track; but a pathway through cornfields is worse, for, let what pains may be taken, wheat, beans, and barley will be torn down and trampled under foot. And yet in apportioning his rents, no landlord takes all this into consideration. Farmer Trumbull considered it a good deal, and was often a wrathful man. There was at any rate no right of way across his farmyard, and here he might keep as big a dog as he chose, chained or unchained. Harry Gilmore knew the dog well, and stood for a moment leaning on the gate. "Who be there?" said the voice of the farmer. "Is that you, Mr. Trumbull? It is I,--Mr. Gilmore. I want to get round to the front of the parson's house." "Zurely, zurely," said the farmer, coming forward and opening the gate. "Be there anything wrong about, Squire?" "I don't know. I think there is. Speak softly. I fancy there are men lying in the churchyard." "I be a-thinking so, too, Squire. Bone'm was a growling just now like the old 'un." Bone'm was the name of the bull-dog as to which Gilmore had been solicitous as he looked over the gate. "What is't t'ey're up to? Not bugglary?" "Our friend's apricots, perhaps. But I'll just move round to the front. Do you and Bone'm keep a look-out here." "Never fear, Squire; never fear. Me and Bone'm together is a'most too much for 'em, bugglars and all." Then he led Mr. Gilmore through the farmyard, and out on to the road, Bone'm growling a low growl as he passed away. The Squire hurried along the high road, past the church, and in at the Vicarage front gate. Knowing the place well, he could have made his way round into the garden; but he thought it better to go to the front door. There was no light to be seen from the windows; but almost all the rooms of the house looked out into the garden at the back. He knocked sharply, and in a minute or two the door was opened by the parson in person. "Frank," said the Squire. "Halloo! is that you? What's up now?" "Men who ought to be in bed. I came across two men hanging about your gate in the churchyard, and I'm not sure there wasn't a third." "They're up to nothing. They often sit and smoke there." "These fellows were up to something. The man I saw plainest was a stranger, and just the sort of man who won't do your parishioners any good to be among them. The other was Sam Brattle." "Whew--w--w," said the parson. "He has gone utterly to the dogs," said the Squire.