“‘Have done with your stupid nonsense,’ said the alderman. ‘Hire a dozen men, and have it all down in half an hour in the morning: but you had rather see those devils of crows eat it, eh? It would make your prophesying true.’ “‘Not a bit of it,’ said John; ‘I shall miss all this good barley in the winter for the fowls; but I knew how it would be.’ “The alderman went away very crusty: he had lost his nap, and a good deal of barley. Next morning comes John and three or four men, to mow and carry away the barley, to secure it from the crows, but the crows had been there for three hours before John came at six, and had not left a single ear on the stalks.” “Well, seize me,” said one of the farmers, “but that’s a good story, and just like them rooks.” “A deep old file that gardener,” said the others. “You know a thing or two, young fellow, we can see. Now I dare say as you go on through the country, you can put a bit of wire in your pocket and snickle a puss now and then. That makes a good supper at the lodging-house. There’s rare living there, I hear; jolly beggars all when you getten together.” “There’s a deal of fun there often,” said Tom; “and if you farmers and the gentlemen landlords could but hear yourselves talked of by some witty rogues—taken off, as they call it—you’d hardly know yourselves again. But as to poaching, I can tell you the prettiest feat of that kind that ever came off, and done by a sort of a gentleman too.” “Let’s have it,” said the farmers, for they had not had such an entertaining fellow for a very long while to listen to. “Landlord, another pint for him, to wet his whistle, it mun get dry with so much talk.” “Thank you, gentlemen,” said Tom; “but I never allow myself above a pint.” “Then put this pint to our score, landlord,” said the farmer. “And this bit of poaching?”