“‘Get to hell from here, you poaching blackguard!’ cried the Guv’nor. ‘Certainly I’ve got one of you, and if ever you come on my land again I’ll get you, too!’ “‘I was rather fond of Scottie,’ said Black Jack, ‘and knew all his tricks. He’d got some funny tricks, too; don’t be too sure you’ve done with him!’ Then suddenly his face went hard and fierce, and there were tears in his eyes. He shoved the dog’s muzzle right into the Guv’nor’s face and gave a funny little sharp whistle which seemed to scream in one’s head, and he muttered something in some foreign language, gipsy, I guess, and I got the idea that the dog was listening as if it was alive again, and in a twinkling Jack and the dog had disappeared--into the woods I suppose, but it was quick work. “‘The Guv’nor never said a word, but started off to walk home, and here we are, and the ruddy car can drown for all I care! I leave to-morrow. He can get some other stiff to be killed with him. I’m through. Christ, I’ve got a head!’ “‘You go to bed,’ I said, ‘I’ll get the car brought in in the morning.’ “He was as good as his word, sir; he left before lunch and I never saw him again. “The next afternoon I had to go down to the village, and at once I noticed a change. Nobody from the Hall was ever much welcomed there, but I had always been treated with civility, and some of them were quite friendly. That day they looked at me out of the corners of their eyes, and were short and abrupt in their manner. It made me feel very uncomfortable, sir.” “What had Sir Roger done to make himself so unpopular with the local people?” asked Mr. Ponders. “Well, sir, he was a harsh landlord, and never put himself out to please. In this way he was very unlike his father. I think that’s what they hated most about him.” “I remember Fred Wallington,” said Mr. Ponders. “A genial, easy-going old fox-hunter. Well, go on.”