`Aha! Foxy don't like the notice-boards, and he don't like the prickles either. Now we'll cut up the tunnel and go to the Lodge. Hullo! They've sent Foxy into cover.'
The Sergeant was waist-deep in crackling, swaying furze, his ears filled with the noise of his own progress. The boys reached the shelter of the wood and looked down through a belt of hollies.
`Hellish noise!' said Stalky critically. `'Don't think Colonel Dabney will like it. I move we go up to the Lodge and get something to eat. We might as well see the fun out.'
Suddenly the keeper passed them at a trot.
`Who'm they to combe-bottom for Lard's sake? Master'll be crazy,' he said.
`Poachers simly,' Stalky replied in the broad Devon that was the boy's langue de guerre.
`I'll poach 'em to raights!' He dropped into the funnel-like combe, which presently began to fill with noises, notably King's voice crying, `Go on, Sergeant! Leave him alone, you, sir. He is executing my orders.'
`Who'm yeou to give arders here, gingy whiskers? Yeou come up to the master. Come out o' that wuzzy! [This is to the Sergeant.] Yiss, I reckon us knows the boys yeou'm after. They've tu long ears an' vuzzy bellies, an' you nippies they in yeour pockets when they'm dead. Come on up to master! He'll boy yeou all you'm a mind to. Yeou other folk bide your side fence.'
`Explain to the proprietor. You can explain, Sergeant,' shouted King. Evidently the Sergeant had surrendered to the major force.
Beetle lay at full length on the turf behind the Lodge literally biting the earth in spasms of joy.
Stalky kicked him upright. There was nothing of levity about Stalky or M`Turk save a stray muscle twitching on the cheek.
They tapped at the Lodge door, where they were always welcome.
`Come yeou right in an' set down, my little dearrs,' said the woman. `They'll niver touch my man. He'll poach 'em to rights. Iss fai! Fresh berries an' cream. Us Dartymoor folk niver forgit their friends. But them Bidevor poachers, they've no hem to their garments. Sugar? My man he've digged a badger for yeou, my dearrs. 'Tis in the linhay in a box.'
`Us'll take un with us when we'm finished here. I reckon yeou'm busy. We'll bide here an'--'tis washin' day with yeou, simly,' said Stalky. `We'm no company to make all vitty for. Niver yeou mind us. Yiss. There's plenty cream.'
The woman withdrew, wiping her pink hands on her apron, and left them in the parlour. There was a scuffle of feet on the gravel outside the heavily-leaded diamond panes, and then the voice of Colonel Dabney, something clearer than a bugle.
`Ye can read? You've eyes in your head? Don't attempt to deny it. Ye have!'
Beetle snatched a crochet-work antimacassar from the shiny horsehair sofa, stuffed it into his mouth, and rolled out of sight.
`You saw my notice-boards. Your duty? Curse your impudence, sir. Your duty was to keep off my grounds. Talk of duty to me! Why--why--why, ye misbegotten poacher, ye'll be teaching me my A B C next! Roarin' like a bull in the bushes down there! Boys? Boys? Boys? Keep your boys at home, then! I'm not responsible for your boys! But I don't believe it--I don't believe a word of it. Ye've a furtive look in your eye--a furtive, sneakin', poachin' look in your eye, that 'ud ruin the reputation of an archangel! Don't attempt to deny